

OF CONGRESS, 


ITED ST/\'"’S OF AMEHie 


o 






' ^ rs 

HIT. : 

' /: r\^r\f^. 



.vr • • .'■' ■• . 


1' ^-A 



rO 

; 1 

i ' 

*'»• • i 
























fwr- 




.iS 


•. r 


r* 

>• : 




i •.*,■•■ > '^ ^ , ;.«• ' .• - • 

•>- ' 


- 

• "'V 


yi '' 



’^ ■ 1 W.V 




TVV / 

I »• 


• ' 


• .- • ;/i V 


/V ?* . N 




? 7 P: 


“•i; 


‘ '1 *V '. 


•r« 'I • 

«»’•/ > . ■' ’V 




■ '■ 

*• rv,.s 


/ • •« 




r.V» 


V r ,_ 

• .» I ' ' - ^ 




• 1 




•: 


A* j ' 

*??•* . 




- fi *, 


/ ' •. 

.t'* ' 




D 


'vP 

t: 



.•{■<• ! 

■ • .'S 


'.i 


» 

I > 


’ " 4, 


vn 


f 

4 




?i> ' ' 




. . 


•I 


I > 


y -/ 

• ' H '■■ 


* » •‘•vl ’'• 


• V 





•• - • 


.i' 4 


. V..' '• 


7' ' •;■ '>t' 


T V> 


> 

/' 


J'jr'- -VJ 

■TT . . . '• »' » ^ 





'' ' Jv.vy-''' ■• 

‘ ' ■' " '' ‘.i' 


« I 









*Vi • - * • . - 

-..J 

• . w*.*' ■ . ' ^5 



’. 'uli^f 


'A r 
v;'- 


• < 

I • . 

-■'*•< 




i;; ' • 


ikL .. u;' J:<Li - ^Ar- '■ 




■ Wi lit' ‘ ^ '■ ' •,. ■ ■ -r' '■'JfSriiw , ; - 

• i :v.; ';*: -^p' '.’ :>"^. 

*-.L ■• “^ . Itlty *j. ’ ■• ■"•■Jh 





> *■••,*. • > 7 ' .f ; -A • 


'a • . * 1 ■ ^ i^OHB \ J ‘ • 

A*'-- ■•::ki..; ..- 


4 > 41 * 


SIJ. 


i' 


4 ^ 

t • ' I J*A ■ ■“ 


v- 

• J 




5j’ V‘ * 


t ' • 


■U->' - ' -.•• 


•v,' 


4 • 



:i*S 


..- ■ % :'s.Ja .jea-«l 


.■A«S^'-v' 


*-m - 


'T-^, 




">/ 


• .>v< 


•. r 




*::l , 


: <i 5 


»i .% V, 


I •»l»* • 


I 

■' 6 ;' 


i,-." 




_> I 




r » 


iVX 




P. > V 


T ‘ 




i< ; 


..4 




'“r #. 


I** *1 






A; V* 


V'^/ 


:k. 






.» ^ k 




*-'«i 


i ■>'**<' 


' . 1 * 1 ^ , 




' ».•' 


V* 


•> • . 

« • 



yj 


' . 


m 


C^'*, 






( 


f 




1 


'/ 


t 








o 




« 







I 

\ 

I 


I * 


I 


f f 


f. 


» 


I • 


s 


r 





i 


!• 











< .r 


f 



If : 


V , , 










MABEL CLIFTON. 















* 





■A 



♦ 






f 









« 


\ 






t 


V 



1 

•r # 



# 

♦ • ^ 


\ # 


• • 






4 




% 






MABEL CLIFTON. 


^ §[0V(l. 


J17 


t-, 


vr.. 


/ 


FRANK RKIERWOOD. 


” So heed, oh, heed well, ere forever united. 

That the heart to the he;irt flow’ in one, love-delighted; 
Illusion ia brief, but Repentance ia long.” — ScuiLLiiR. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

CLAXTON, REMSEX & IIAFEELFIXGEK 

Nos. 819 & 821 Market Street. 

1 8 69 . 








Eutered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 

CLAXTON, REMSEN & IIAFFELFINGER, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States in and for the Eastern 

District of Pennsylvania. 








C 





J. FAGAN (ft BON,^'^'^ 

i 


STEBEOTYPERS, 
PHlIiABELPHIA. . ^ 


Mooke Bro’8, Pbinxers. 




V 


AFFECTIONATELY 

AND 

EESPECTFULLY 

DEDICATED 

TO 

pent, ^licvnuiM, 

- BY THE 

AUTHOR. 


V 


* 


f 


« 













^ y— , ■ 

* . r ^ ^ i • » 






^ * ' 


^ • T. ^ I * 


r I 
• • 

'.V- 

J \ 




. ^ 




V\^ 



♦ 


a 





^ • . - 




t 


\ 



( 



% 


'* 



^ V' 



•n - 


1 

r ^ 


) 


y 



. \ 


i* 






r 





f . 


J» .V. 





'P''.' 


,T 


'.34 




-*-’5K'7' 


■ i**' 







^■l 


% 



♦ 


* y'* . 

r 









PREFACE. 


tlie silence and beauty of that enchanted land, 
where the loveliness and freshness of l^ature con- 
trast with all we can imagine of solitude and gloom ; 
that land in which lie entombed magnificent cities 
with scarce a stone or column to mark the spot 
where once they stood ; and where, firm and immu- 
table as the everlasting hills, rise in melancholy 
grandeur the mausoleums of ‘‘ a thousand line of 
kings,” — sadness and mirth, life and death, still go 
hand in hand, as in ages past, when in the gayest 

revels a skeleton sat veiled and crowned. The 

setting sun is shining on palace and tomb, as a young 
girl emerges from a grove of citron and palm, and 
steals quietly along under the drooping branches of 
the acacias which fringe the bank of that river, for 
a taste of whose waters the exile pines in far-olf 
lands. In the distance gleam the mosques and min- 
arets of Cairo : gold and rose-color blended with a 
silvery tissue, bright as the lining of a cloud. But 
she sees not the beauty spread out before her, as she 
kneels, and with trembling hands places on the 
smooth water a mimic boat freighted with fiowers, 
— the graceful lily of the hTile, sacred to the moon, 

vii 


Vlll 


PREFACE. 


and heaps of fragrant roses and floral treasures, that 
bloom only under an Egyptian sun. 

Tears fall on the creamy petals, and the crushed 
fragrance rises like incense, as with a hurried prayer 
she lights the tiny colored lamp, and the boat glides 
silently away. — Darkness shrouds the river, and still 
she kneels on the yellow shore, and watches with 
straining eyes the flickering, uncertain gleam. That 
freight is not alone flowers : her heart is in the ven- 
ture, and if the light goes out, her hopes will set in 

darkness. Like that lonely girl-, I place, 

with trembling, timid hand, my humble offering on 
the dim, mysterious river, where many a nobler bark 
> has been wrecked, — many a true heart has broken, 
waiting for the waves to carry out on the broad 
waters the vessel which never left the shore until 
the eyes watching its glimmering radiance were for- 
ever closed. —Many a fairer bark has gone down 
silently,— yet still my fearful, uncertain feet press 
the brink of the fatal river. My eyes are dim with 
fear and expectation, and my fluttering heart goes 
with the mimic boat as it trembles on the turbid 

water. Will it sink, gentle reader, or will tlie 

glancing waves bear it gayly. onward toward the 
Ocean of Eternity? 




/ 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


CHAPTER 1. 

I T was a beautiful morning in October. The forests 
were gorgeous with brilliant hues, and crimson and 
yellow leaves were strewn thickly over the brown and 
■withered grass, heaped in glowing piles around the roots 
of trees, and peeping brightly from green mosses. 

It was as if Autumn held high carnival, in the hope 
that Winter, charmed by the splendor and beauty of her 
coloring, might chain his icy winds, and withhold the deso- 
lating touch that would leave the beautiful forests so 
bleak and desolate no sunshine could renew their loveli- 
ness. Two young girls stood at the entrance of the for- 
est, bathed in the sunshine which danced among the bril- 
liant shadows, and lay like molten silver over the pleasant 
landscape. 

“ Both were young ; and one was beautiful,” — so beau- 
tiful, you would never tire of gazing on her radiant face ; 
a face which once seen, would leave a haunting remem- 
brance ever after. 

It was not alone the charm that lay in her rippling 
brown hair and exquisitely chiselled features ; in the won- 
drous eyes in which lurked a light Circe might have 
envied; or in the rich ivory of a complexion no Parian 
marble could rival. It was that indescribable something 

9 


10 • MABEL GLIFTON. 

that occasionally lurks in a face, and makes it beautiful, 
even 'without perfect features. 

But with Mabel Clifton it was only an added charm. 
There ■\vas not a curve of her exquisite face or figure but 
w^as faultless in grace and the perfection of beauty. 

She held her companion’s hand, as if to draw her for- 
ward, and pointed eagerly to a little glen, far over, the 
meadow, and nearly reaching the misty, blue hills, whence 
issued a cloud of smoke, which, rising slo'v\dy, and curling 
into fantastic wreaths, finally lost itself in the hazy atmos- 
phere. 

' #“See, Alice!” she said, her eyes sparkling with anima- 
tion, and her cheeks glowing, “ that smoke rises from the 
Gipsy camp. It is not more than a mile distant. The 
^ fates are surely propitious ; for, on such a morning, and 
with such sunshine, no sibyl could predict a gloomy future. 
Come, Alice; I shall be seriously ofiended if you turn back 
now. Come!” 

But. Alice still hesitated, and looked imploringly in her 
' friend’s face, now darkening with an angry frown. 

“Mabel, darling, do not be angry with me,” she said 
timidly. “You are going a-way so soon ; and we may 
never meet again. Of course, I will go, if you insist ; but, 
^rabel,” and her voice sank to an almost whisper, “ I am 
afraid to know the future. These are not ordinary Gip- 
sies, but a regular Italian band ; and they are said to be 
in league with the Evil One. They can tell all your past 
life, and all the future, and predict the most dreadful 
things.” 

“Keaily, Alice,” said Mabel, with a scornful laugh, 
“you would make a poor advocate. Your arguments only 
determine me to persist in my purpose. Since you have 
added mystery” — she did not finish her sentence, for there 
was a rustling of leaves in the forest behind them, and 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


11 


turning, she saw a tall, graceful woman advancing rapidly 
along the path. Her face was shaded by the hood of her 
cloak, and her head was bent. ' Alice uttered an exclama- 
tion of surprise, and Mabel said, with a smile, “ The very ^ 
queen of Gipsies ; or, perhaps, an emissary of the Evil One. 
How shall I address her, Alice ? ” Alice clasped her arm 
in terror ; but she pushed her away, and said haughtily, 

“ You are a miserable coward, Alice ! There can be no 
harm in speaking to her. If she shows any insolence, I 
will denounce her to the authorities, and have her arrested 
as a vagrant.’’ 

The last words were spoken more loudly than she liad 
intended, perhaps, for the stranger w^as so near that she 
heard them distinctly, and stopping abruptly, seemed 
trying to collect her thoughts. . 

Mabel’s cheeks turned a shade paler; but she stepped 
forward, and confronting her, said carelessly, “I should 
like my fortune told, my good woman, and was on my way 
to your camp for that purpose. I suppose it matters little 
as to the time and place, so the hand is crossed with silver.” 

There was a dead silence ; and the Gipsy took the hand 
Mabel extended, her own almost as white and delicate; 
but she dropped it with a kind of shiver, and the coin 
rolled at her feet, as she spoke in a hurried voice, without 
looking up, — 

“ I do not tell fortunes. It is a mystery I would not 
trifle with ; but I see that in your hand which pity would 
keep me from telling you, harshly and as unkindly as you 
have spoken of one whose evident misery should have ap- 
pealed to your compassion. Seek not to know the future, 

. and let me go my way.” 

She looked up suddenly, and grasped Mabel’s arm, her 
face turning to an ashen hue, and the words, “ Who are 
yoii?” falling from her quivering lips. 


Alice screamed, and even Mabel was startled, and in a . 
half-frightened, half-defiant way, released herself. 

It was a strange tableau those three made: Alice a little 
apart, with her white face and frightened blue eyes turned 
to her friend, and yet seeming as if she could not resist the 
impulse that urged her to instant flight; the rich autumnal 
forest for a background, and the superb figure of Mabel 
and the Gipsy thrown into bold relief, — Mabel, so slight 
and graceful, with her Cleopatra-like face a little down- 
cast — the white lids shading the scornful eyes, and no 
color except in her glowing lips ; and the Gipsy, a perfect 
Zenobia, large and splendidly proportioned, a very queen 
in her bearing. 

Her scarlet hood was thrown back, and masses of jetty 
hair shaded her pale, disturbed face, and her eyes flashed 
with anger and despair. After a minute, as if to control 
the emotion that almost seemed to overmaster her, she said 
passionately, — ■ 

• “I need not ask who you are; the Clifton pride is written 
in every lineament, and much as I hate the whole race, 
I would wish you no worse doom than that same pride 
will’ work for you. Have you still the curiosity to know 
the future? I will dispense with the sum usual on such 
occasions, for the pleasure of telling you.” 

Mabel hesitated a moment, and then held out her hand, 
with a scornful gesture ; but the woman pushed it aside. 

“ I have known one of your name, and his career is but 
a sample of what your own will be — only, being a woman, 
your errors will meet with the contempt they deserve ; you 
will be scorned for a fault which, in a man, the world would 
consider a slight indiscretion. 

“You need not smile with such a conscious air of power^ 
as if you would defy fate, for, beautiful, wealthy, and high- 
born as you are — ” 


MABEL C L I F T O X. 


13 


- ,Slie stopped, abruptly, and would have passed on but 
^Rfabel said proudly, and with a bitter laugh : “ I am pre- 
pared for the worst — let me hear it.” 

There were tears in the Gipsy’s bright eyes, but she 
dashed them away, and said solemnly : “ The day will come 
when you will be so ruined and disgraced, that your only 
aim in life will be to hide in some spot where your enemies 
will forget you, — you will have no friends.” 

Alice had been listening with parted lips and beatSg 
heart, but she now ran forward, and flung her arms round 
Mabel, as if she would- shield her from the doom that 
sounded so terrible. She had partially forgotten her fear in 
anxiety for her friend, and she said bravely, although she 
was still trembling, — 

You are a cruel, bad woman, to say such things; and 
Mabel has one friend who will never desert her.” 

“You, poor child, will only be one of the victims; she 
will trample every hope from your life, as she would tram- 
ple a worm under her feet, — if you trust her, little girl ! ” 
and her voice was almost tender, and she would have taken 
her hand ; but Alice shrank back in terror. 

“So you do not want your fortune told?” Alice uttered 
a faint “No,” and the Gipsy, after a moment’s silence, turned 
on her homev/ard way, and then came back, as if with an 
irresistible impulse, and leaned over the trembling form 
of Alice. 

“Little girl,” she said, in a tone that was softened at first, 
but rose as she went on, “ You have a face I like, and you 
need not fear the future — to the pure and good, it can 
bring only peace in the end. 

“ But I must warn you against the friend you love so 
dearly. She will bring the trial of your life, distrust her 
most when she is smiling, and better take a serpent to your 
bosom, than cherish her in your heart. Again I say, be- 
2 


14 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


■ware of her — if you would be happy.” — A shade of re-j» 
morse crossed her face, and she wrung her hands and turned 
to Mabel. 

“ Heaven forgive me, if I read your fortune truly, and 
if it was wrong to make use of the power ; you tempted me 
in a moment of despair,”— she looked up, and a sudden anger 
flashed in her face and quivered in her tone. 

“ Like the man I once trusted, you have the face of an 
angel and the heart of a fiend. But beware ! you have 
nothing to trust in my pity, and everything to fear from 
my hate; and the hour you denounce me to the authorities, 
you decide your own doom ! ” 

And so saying, she turned from them and disappeared 
in the forest ; and without exchanging a word, the friends 
retraced their steps, — Alice, timid and frightened, and for- 
getting to note the beauty that had so delighted her an 
hour before. Mabel’s cheeks were flushed and her teeth 
firmly set, and AliceJ who glanced at her furtively, now 
and then, did not dare to speak, but walked silently by her 
side toward the quiet little town. 

Mabel drew her veil over her face, as they passed along 
the principal thoroughfare, and seemed to have forgotten 
the poor, startled Alice, whose tears were flowing silently 
through sorrow at her coldness. She paused at the gate 
of her own home, a stately* old house, almost hidden by 
exuberant shrubbery that lined the broad gravel-walk 
and threw heavy shadows over the pavement. 

Alice held the gate open for her friend to enter ; but Ma- 
bel did not notice her by so much as a glance, and walked 
haughtily on, but Alice caught her arm. 

“ Mabel, are you not coming in. Dear Mabel, I am so 
sorry that dreadful woman spoke as she did. Come up to 
my room, darling, and rest until dinner. You shall not 
be disturbed fqr luncheon. Come, dear;” and she put he; 


M A B E L C L I F T O N. 


15 


arm through hers, and tried to draw her back, talking 
sweetly all the while. 

Mabel had at first resisted, and turned from her friend, 
as she tried to walk on ; but she stopped suddenly, and 
Alice, emboldened by the slight concession, redoubled her 
entreaties, and was about to take her hand, as she called 
her some endearing name, when Mabel threw up her veil,^ 
and showed a face white with passion, and so malignant 
that Alice shrank from her, pale and trembling. 

“ How dare you stop me, and try to impose your flimsy 
afiection, after what has passed ? ” she almost hissed be- 
tween her set teeth. “ I am not surprised that you should 
feel elated%by the words addressed to yourself; they were 
complimentary in the extreme, and it is quite in keeping 
with your angelic role, this pitying friendship ; but I can 
see through your arts, and i despise you ! — utterly despise 
you ! — and hope I may never look on your face again.” 

“ O Mabel ! ” sobbed Alice, cHnging to her passion- 
ately, her childish face raised to hers, “ unsay those cruel 
words. I am not to blame for what that wicked woman- 
said.” Mabel’s only answer w^as to withdraw herself in- 
dignantly ; and w^hen Alice again begged her to listen, she 
pushed her so violently, in her insane anger, that Alice 
staggered against the iron gateway, and with a faint moan, 
sank to the ground. 





CHAPTER IL 


^HE Cliftons were a family who acknowledged few 



_L equals, and no superiors ; yet their elegance of manner, 
and the magnificence of their surroundings, atoned in a 
measure for the haughty exclusiveness that placed a bar- 
rier between themselves and the very guests who partook 
of their hospitality, and who, with sometimes greater claim 
to superiority,^ courted their favor, as if it y^re a great 
distinction. So true it is, that the world is apt to rate per- 
sons according to their own estimate. 

They lived in a grand stone house, about a mile from 
the beautiful town. A castle-like edifice, with gray battle- 
ments, and an ivied tower, rising above the graceful trees 
which shaded, without hiding, the imposing Gothic aix,*hi- 
tccture. 

There were lofty halls, frescoed ceilings, and deep bay 
windows ^vilh cushioned seats ; and masses of velvet dra- 
pery, and fleecy laces. Mossy carpets, that glowed with 
color, and in which the footfall sank and gave no echo. 

Rosewood and marble furniture, and heavy Venetian 
mirrors which extended from the carved ceiling to the floor, 
and pictures so exquisite, you never tired of gazing. A 
noble library lined with books, and decorated with busts 
of poet and philosopher, and statuary which had been chis- 
elled in sunny Italy, Hebes and Floras and dancing nymphs, 
in graceful contrast with the solemn grandeur. 

Without were Grecian porticos, and massive stone pil- 
lal^, wreathed with clustering vines. Fountains threw 
their spray amid the evergreens, and glittered, like 


16 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


17 


diamonds, on brilliant exotics which filled the air with fra- 
grance; and there were long, shaded walks, ending in 
dreamy recesses of shade; and grottos, and miniature 
temples, and nooks where no sunbeams ever penetrated 
the dense mass of foliage. 

Edward Clifton, the present head of the family, had 
spent the most of his life abroad, and had reluctantly 
returned when the death of his father made the charge of 
the estate an imperative necessity. 

His marriage with his beautiful cousin occurred almost 
immediately ; and it was said a handsomer bridal pair had * 
never knelt for a blessing before the altar of the little 
church, although the bride still wore mourning for her 
uncle and guardian, and the bridegroom’s face was as white 
and rigid as the face of a corpse. Many were the predic- 
tions of future unhappiness for the youthful pair, for 
rumor, that busy dame, attributed the marriage to avarice 
on his part, and avowed it was not her bright eyes, but her 
fortune, that won him ; and that she was as incapable of 
affection as a piece of senseless marble. 

Yet rumor for once, at least, was in fault; for if ap- 
pearance could be trusted, the marriage was a happy one. 

Mr. Clifton’s manner to his wife was faultless — all cour- 
tesy and elegance. She was neither brilliant nor entertain- 
ing, yet he apparently imagined her both. 

As to her own demeanor, it was unaltered. Haughty she 
had been before her marriage, and haughty she was ever 
after. 

No son came to bless their hopes, or bear their ancient 
name; and Mabel, their only child, and beautiful from 
her cradle, could not recompense them for their disappoint- 
ment. 

Had she been the most amiable child that ever blelfeed 
a parent’s care, they would have felt regret; but each year 
she grew more wilful and obstinate, until her mother came 
2^^ B ^ 


18 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


to tremble at her frown, and think no concession too great, 
if Mabel was appeased. 

She bitterly reaped the fruits of the foolish indulgence 
that had fostered all Mabel’s bad qualities, and made her, 
even in childhood, the terror of the servants and a person 
to be shunned by her playmates. 

Alice Melville was the only companion whose friendship 
she retained, or for whose affection she seemed to care. 
Alice loved her with a species of worship that failed to see 
augSl but perfection in her idol; and Mabel received her 
homage with more affection than she had ever shown for 
any other person. 

At boarding-school, the injudicious treatment that had 
ruined Mabel’s good impulses was continued. Her wealth 
and beauty and rare talents excused every fault, and she 
returned home, a siren in face and form, beautiful as a 
poet’s vision, but tyrannical and selfish, and with a temper 
so ungovernable, that Mr. Clifton, who alone could restrain 
her, found his life a perpetual struggle, and home at times 
a pandemonium. 

Mabel renewed her friendship with Alice, who was un- 
altered in her devotion ; she was only sixteen, and it was not 
strange that Mabel should seem to her inexperienced eyes 
a superior being. 

Could she have been in doubt as to her own judgment, 
her brother’s admiration and love for Mabel would have 
silenced every misgiving, — her brother and guardian, (for 
her parents were dead,) who alone could rival Mabel in her 
affection. 

Mabel received his homage as a very natural tribute to 
her charms, but with a degree of pride in the conquest, for 
he was not only the handsomest and wealthiest gentleman 
of her acquaintance, but as a lawyer had won distinction at 
a bar the most celebrated in the State for talent. 



A B E L CLIFTON. 


19 


Mr. Clifton watched the love afiair with an interest al- 
most as painfully intense as that with which the gambler 
watches the stakes, when his fortune trembles in the scale. 

It was ilot alone that his affairs were involved, and that 
Mabel’s reckless extravagance made her marriage a neces- 
sity, but he felt the slight power to control her, that he 
possessed, was growing less positive each day. No trial v/as 
so revolting to his refined Sybarite temperament, as.. the 
disgraceful violence of Mabel’s temper and the contest with 
his own wdll that was of almost daily occurrence. Added 
to this was remorse, that he had left her so entirely to the 
care of her weak, indolent mother, when, by restraining, he 
might have taught her self-control. 

Mabel’s rage ^nd consternation knew no bounds when 
Mr. Clifton informed her of her lover’s proposal and his 
own consent. 

Lucifer could not have rivalled her in ambition ; and al- 
though Laurence Melville’s position w^as one of which any 
woman might have been proud — with her extravagant vis- 
ions of life it w^as a mesalliance 

There w^as no limit to her aspirations, and no w’^ealth or 
fame she hoped to gain by marriage, too dazzling. Wash- 
ington, whither she was to accompany her parents shortly, 
had seemed too small a field for her triumphal career, and a 
coronet danced before her vision as a probable reality and 
a moderate expectation, for during the European tour she 
was contemplating in the future, princes and dukes were 
to bow at her feet. 

She raved like a tragedy-queen, her lips white with pas- 
sion ; but she might as well have attempted to resist the 
force of an avalanche. 

Mr. Clifton listened wdth the most provoking calmness, 
and when the storm was somewhat spent, very coolly in- 
formed her, that she must receive Laurence Melville as 


'i 


20 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


her intended husband, or leave forever the shelter of his 
roof; and with a nonchalance that drove her almost to the 
verge of insanity, in answer to her ambitious views, which 
her desperation urged her to bring forward, said, “ that 
when she showed him a more eligible suitor, it would be 
time to consider the expediency of dismissing Mr. Melville.” 

He added, as he turned to leave the room : “ Had you 
offered one reasonable objection, Mabel, — had you pleaded 
the want of proper affection for Mr. Melville, I would have 
overlooked the unreasonableness of your plea; for your 
manner to him was encouraging, after his sentiments ad- 
mitted of no doubt. I am only fulfilling my duty in secur- 
ing a future which will be a happy one for you, and if you 
'disobey me, my responsibility ends.” 

The door "closed, and Mabel was alone, and tired of the 
storm of passion that raged in her undisciplined breast, she 
decided to yield to her father’s commands, for the present 
at least. There was no trace of the conflict on her beauti- 
fid face, when a few hours later she received Mr. Melville ; 
and as he looked on her rare loveliness, and pressed her 
hand to his lips ; he wondered ho\y it could be that such 
happiness was vouchsafed him. Sete seemed too gloriously 
beautiful to be loved by an erring mortal. 

After a few weeks, Mr. Melville, in spite of the enchant- 
ment her spells had woven, awal|^ned to the reality that 
his divinity was not perfection, and that he was, by yield- 
ing to her caprices, lowering his own manliness, and en- 
couraging her weakness ; he would not yet admit she had 
a fault. 

His opinions and wishes were entitled to respect, he 
decided, and the consequence of this determination was 
their first serious quarrel, and it occurred the evening be- 
fore the day on which Mabel and Alice are introduced to 
the reader. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


21 


Laurence Melville unfortunately expressed his disap- 
probation of the custom of consulting fortune-tellers, and 
the wickedness of encouraging persons who were either 
imposters, or in league with Satan. Mabel, who delighted 
in showing her disregard for her lover’s wishes, immediately 
declared her intention of visiting the Gipsy camp on the 
morrow, and Mr. Melville opposed this resolution with 
all a lover’s earnestness, and a little authority savoring 
of a more advanced period. 

It was not in the drawing-room that this discussion oc- 
curred, or Mabel would have betrayed the anger that raged 
like a whirlpool in her breast, as she turned indignantly 
from him. She was unaccustomed to have any one dic- 
tate to her, except Mr. Clifton on rare occasions, and her 
very soul revolted from his authority; but for Mr. Melville 
to presume so far, was an impertinence. “ She would die 
sooner than forgive,” she thought angrily, as she ground 
her white teeth and clenched her hands ; the darkness of 
the piazza shrouded her completely. 

Little dreamed her lover, as she. stood so quietly beside 
him that starlit evening, of her anger or the determina- 
tion that grew stronger every moment — to defy her father’s 
wishes, and free herself from her hateful engagement. 

She withdrew her hand indignantly as he attempted to 
take it at parting, but sfte said “ good night ” so sweetly, 
a moment after, that he attributed it to caprice, and on 
his homeward way thought complacently of his manly 
assertion of his rights as her betrothed husband. 

Mabel went immediately to the drawing-room, where 
Mr. and Mrs. Clifton and a few guests were assembled. 
One glance at her face showed Mr. Clifton the state of her 
mind, and without noticing her request “ to see him in the 
library as soon as he was at leisure,” he proposed some 
niiisic, in a pleasant tone and with a laughing appeal to 


; 


22 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


his guests, whose unanimous assent made a refusal im- 
possible. 

Her eyes flashed angrily, and she bit her red lips until 
the blood started, as she swept to the piano with the proud 
grace of a queen. 

Music was her passion, and her father well knew it 
would be the surest way to restrain her. 

The touch of the keys restored the self-possession th.at 
was fast deserting her, and she poured all her angry soiil 
in the passionate strains. 

Fiercer and fiercer dashed her fingers, and the music 
rose in rich volumes of sound, and filled the air with 
startled echoes. 

She played as if it were the hapless Laurence Melville 
she w^as torturing. 

The listeners held their breath ; even Mr. Clifton, used 
as he was to her wonderful power, leaned forward in ecstasy. 

Mrs. Clifton, who disliked music, was fairly roused from 
her apathetic elegance, and attempted the unparalleled ex- 
ertion of going in person to persuade Mabel to have some 
consideration for her nerves. 

She caught her husband’s eye, and walked to the win- 
dow instead, vaguely wondering “ why Mr. Clifton would 
pei’sist in liking Mabel’s engagement, when she grew every 
day more unmanageable and uneadurable.” 

She felt also a little amused curiosity as to how Mabel 
would end her stormy music, and half expected an out- 
break, but she did not allow it to trouble her. 

It was Mr. Clifton’s whim to restrain Mabel, and s6 
long as she was a mere looker-on, she was perfectly satis- 
fied, only it was hard to be obliged to listen to such a flood 
of music, when it was her particular aversion.” 

At this point, Mabel stopped suddenly, to her lady mo- 
ther’s joy. But it was of short duration, for Mr. Clifton said 


0 


\ 


MABEL CL I FTC) X. 


23 


softly, ‘‘Mabel dear, do not think of leaving the piano yet; 
give us those beautiful variations from Lucretia Borgia.” 

Mabel, after a moment of hesitation, did as she was re- 
quested, and played until the weight of her anger was 
removed, in a measure, from the unconscious Mr. Melville, 
and she was too worn out with the fierce tide of passion to 
be capable of any rashness ; so Mr. Clifton decided, as thd 
tones grew softer, and he signified his approbation of her 
efforts for the entertainment of f^he company, — giving 
her to understand that her penance w'as at an end. 

She rose from the piano, and without noticing the com- 
pliments showered on her beautiful playing, except by a 
haughty inclination of her graceful head, advanced to her 
father’s side. Her face was deadly pale, save two crimson 
spots which burned on either cheek, and her eyes were dull 
and heavy, the storm of passion had passed, but she looked 
quietly determined. Her father trembled inwardly, but he 
had too much at stake to waver, and he spoke calmly and 
politely, yet with an air she understood. 

“ Mabel, you are not looking w^ell ; perhaps you had better 
be excused for the remainder of the evening.” 

“ Can I see you after a while?” 

To-morrow will do as well, and I think a little reflection 
will convince you it will be unnecessary even then ; ” and 
he rose and escorted her to the door, keeping his eyes stead- 
ily on her face. She felt an irresistible desire to defy him 
then and there, but it was only for a moment, and she made 
her adieux to the company very gracefully instead ; Mr. 
Clifton holding the door open in the most courteous man- 
ner as she made her exit. 

She congratulated herself on her self-control, after re- 
flecting that her father was nqj to be trifled with, and that 
it would be worse than folly to risk an elegant home, and 
luxuries which constant use had rendered indispensable, 
for the sake of giving full sway to her anger. 


9 


CHAPTER III. 


A bout an hour before the termination of the walk, 
which commenced so auspiciou^y for Mabel and Alice, 
Mr. Clifton rode slowly past Mr. Melville’s residence. 

Laurence was sitting under the trees, reading, and almost 
hidden from view by the evergreens. 

He laid aside his book as he caught a glimpse of Mr. 
Clifton’s figure, and leaning over the gate, held a gay 
conversation with “ his father-in-law elect ” as he mentally 
termed him. 

His careless air set Mr. Clifton’s mind at rest. 

It was plain, Mabel had not betrayed her anger, and that 
the danger threatening the success of his favorite scheme 
was averted, for the present at least. 

“Suppose you order your horse and join me in my ride,” 
he suggested carelessly. 

Laurence hesitated, and said with a blushing awkward- 
ness rather common to lovers, “ that Miss Clifton and his 
sister were spending the morning in the woods, and he 
thought of strolling out and returning with them.” 

“You saw Mabel then this morning?” said Mr. Clifton 
with a little eagerness. 

“Only for a moment — she and Alice passed my office.” 
After a short delay, Mr. Clifton said “Good morning,” 
and continued his ride with a lightened heart, bowing with 
the most gracious air to his acquaintances, and followed by 
envious, admiring eyes. ^ 

It was no wonder the laboring man, tired of the battle 
of life, looked on his lot as supremely^lessed. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


25 


He was so handsome and elegant, and his life seemed 
such a holiday-time. 

He felt himself that living was a very pleasant thing, 
and had an agreeable consciousness, that his fine person and 
elegant horse were very much in keeping with the bright 
sunshine and the glorious October foliage. 

It was well for him that he enjoyed the present and was 
buoyant and light-hearted ; cares would soon thicken around 
him, and life be clouded with shadows thrown by unre- 
pented sins, that no sunshine could penetrate the dark- 
ness. 

Well might he look admiringly on the beautiful land- 
scape spread out before him, and glowing with the sunset- 
hues of summer. It was Surpassingly beautiful, and he 
had loved with all the pride of ownership the broad lands 
that his ancestors for two generations had called their 
own. 

But the lingering delight with which he gazed on mea- 
dow and hillside, was an unconscious farewell to old scenes 
— for never on any future day would he look upon the 
landscape he loved so well. 

And Laurence Melville, as he resumed his seat among 
the evergreens and elms, does not read, but revels in visions 
of the happy future which Mabel is to brighten with her 
rare loveliness. 

It is very seldom this practical man of the world allows 
himself to dream, and the novelty only adds to the en- 
joyment. 

He is not altogether pleased when the opening of the 
gate disturbs his reverie, and pretty Annie Eaymond enters 
hesitatingly. She is dressed in white, and the scarlet bow 
at her throat gives such a delicious glowHo her cheeks, and 
she is such a dainty liCtle personage, that his regret is only 
3 


26 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


momentary, and there is anything but chagrin on his face, 
as he rises courteously to fasten the gate for her. 

His smiling dark eyes say such flattering things quite 
unconsciously, that Annie Eaymond’s heart beats a little 
faster than is quite well, considering Mr. Melville’s engage- 
ment ; and so she thinks, for she declines going to the house, 
and explains with some embarrassment that she only came 
on an errand for mamma, to leave some papers; manfima 
thought they were the very papers he wanted in the settle- 
ment of her affairs, and was not well enough to bring them 
herself. 

But Mr. Melville only heard the first part of the speech, 
and was looking eagerly at the papers he had taken from 
her hand. “ Don’t go,” he said, as she was about to steal 
quietly aw’ay, and looking at her for a moment. 

“ Take one of those rustic seats,” and he pointed to the ‘ 
leafy nook where he had been sitting, “and wait until I 
glance over these documents — I will not keep you long;” and 
without further preface he seated himself beside her, and 
was instantly absorbed in the contents of the package she 
had given him. They were entirely screened from view of 
the passers-by, although the gate was almost opposite, and 
they could see distinctly every one entering. 

Mr. Melville was soon busy with his papers, and Annie 
w^aited with a mixture of embarrassment and frighten her 
pretty face. 

She knew of Mr. Melville’s engagement, and felt it would 
be the most dreadful thing imaginable if the haughty 
Miss Clifton were to come. She would be ready to faint with 
chagrin and mortification ; — there was nothing wrong in 
sitting with her mother’s lawyer, and kindest friend ; but 
there was a secret feeling in her inmost heart — she did not 
stop to analy 250 — that made'lier shrink from meeting that 
young lady then and there. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


27 


Footsteps on the pavement made her heart throb, and 
sent all the blood to her cheeks — wave after wave of color 
swept over her face, and she trembled violently at the 
sound of a gentle voice; it was Alice speaking; and as the 
footsteps paused at the gate, her worst fears were confirmed : 
the dreaded Miss Clifton was her companion. 

She started so suddenly that Mr. Melville looked up in 
surprise ; — but everything was forgotten during the scene 
that followed. 

It passed so quickly, and surprised them so much, that 
they were bound as by a spell. Annie was the first to 
recover, and not until Mabel’s rapid footsteps had carried 
her some distance. 

She ran to Alice, and kneeling, raised her head. Her cry 
of alarm brought Mr. ]\Ielville, whose face was ashy pale, 
and who, strong man that he was, trembled as if with an 
ague-fit. 

Alice had only fainted, and, although the blood was 
slowly’ trickling from a wound in her head, Mr. Melville, 
who had regained his self-possession, saw it was not so se- 
rious as Annie supposed, and taking his sister in his arms, 
carried her to li^r room, and leaving Annie in charge, hur- 
ried aw'ay. 

The physician, who lived near, was fortunately at 
home, and came immediately. The v/ound was soon 
dressed, and Alice restored to consciousness ; but so ner- 
vous and hysterical, that he gave her a soothing draught, 
and took his departure, prescribing quiet as the only remedy 
necessary to her recovery. 

All this passed so rapidly, that it was scarcely more than 
a half hour, and Alice had fallen into a slumber — at first 
broken by starts and frightened exclamatidfis, and gradually 
becoming more profound. 

There had been no confusion or alarm among the ser- 


/ 


28 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


vants, wLo were not even aware of the aecideift. They were 
told, their young mistress was not w'ell, and was to he kept 
quiet — and everything was so still, one might have sup- 
posed the old house was taking a hundred years’ sleep, un- 
der the spell of some fairy enchantress. 

Alas! it was a wucked enchantress who touched Mr. 
Melville’s stately palace, and crumbled it before his eyes ; 
but cruel as was his disappointment, he could but feel it 
would have been better never to have awakened from 
his dream, even in the misery and desolation that prostrated 
him utterly. 

She was a heartless enchantress, destitute of love or 
pity — the woman he had loved so blindly; and bitter 
as. was the truth that had come upon him so suddenly, 
it was better known now than when too late. 

There was no thought of excusing her in his mind ; it was 
a weakness that was not to be indulged for a moment. 

He might invest an ideal with all the virtues that 
should adorn the female character, and love the creature 
of his imagination ; but his eyes being fully opened to the 
fact that she was wanting in all respects where he 
thought her most perfect, his love would die, with the 
fallacy that gave it birth. At least such was the stern ver- 
dict given by reason, as he thought over the revelation of 
the morning. 

He knew too well the yielding, loving nature of his sis- 
ter, to imagine her to blame in the affair. If in the 
past he could have recalled one unkind word or look from 
her to any one, it would have been a relief, — any provo- 
cation from Alice would have been an excuse for Mabel. 
There was none, and he groaned in bitterness of spirit as 
he turned his face from the light ; but more bitter than 
all was, that he felt that she had never loved him. It was 
jdain that the veil of romance was drawn aside, and he 


MABEL CLIFTOX. 


29 


could look soberly over the days of liappiuess lost to 
him forever. 

lie could have smiled at his blind folly, had there not 
been such a dull weight at his heart. 

The hours of the afternoon wore slowly away, — Mr. 
Melville unconscious of anything save the trouble that 
had clouded the first love of his life, and Annie Raymond 
dividing her attention between the sleeping Alice and the 
silent man sitting so quietly at the foot of the bed. 

Aunt Clara, the only mother Alice had ever known, a 
middle-aged, fashionable lady, whose only aim in life was 
the pursuit of pleasure, was taking her yearly jaunt with a 
party of friends, and Annie, notwithstandizfg a doubt as 
to the propriety, had no alternative but to remain. 

She would have found it difficult to refuse Laurence 
Melville’s request that she would stay with Alice, for the 
present at least, and her mother’s cheerful consent, in 
answer to a note she dispatched, silenced her fears. She 
could think then of the sorrow so plainly written on the 
face of her friend, and she had a childish longing to com- 
fort him. She could even have pleaded for her haughty 
enemy, and excused her cotiduct, to see Mr. Melville happy 
again. 


3 * 


CHAPTEE IV. 


ABEL 'walked on 'with rapid footsteps, never once 



AtX turning to look at her poor friend, although she heard 
the faint moan, and there 'was in her heart a kind of hor- 
ror against herself, as if she 'were a murderers. This feel- 
ing held its ground, though the 'wdld tempest of passioli 
'was -still raging, and she hated herself, her friends, and the 
■whole ■world, as she hurried on like a beautiful fury — her 
eyes glaring through the veil, and her face Ihdd with 
passion and the dull remorse gnawing at her heart. 

Turn 's^dlich -way she -would, the pale, tearful face that 
Alice raised so reproachfully and lovingly, rose before her, 
almost the only face she had really loved. 

She tried to put it aside, and to think of Laurence and 
his impertinent counsel, and the insolent Gipsy ; but it was 
of no avail ; all the incidents that wrought her to such a 
pitch of fury faded into insignificance before the image her 
fancy called up of Alice, badly hurt, perhaps dying, by 
her hand. 

Her pace grew slower, and she paused irresolutely, then 
turned and retraced her steps, taking no notice of acquaint- 
ances as she passed them in her rapid flight. 

Her brain reeled with anxiety, and slie could think of 
nothing but Alice, dead or dying, and herself a guilty 
creature, who would bear tlyough life the mark of Cain on 
her forehead, Avho would be shunned by every one. 

The Gipsy’s words rang in her ears, and chilled her 
blood. “ Could she in reality have been gifted with super- 
natural foresight?” she asked herself. 


80 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


31 


Slie had laughed at her prediction, even while it made 
her tremble, but now it seemed as if the terrible fate was 
soon to be realized. 

“ Beautiful, wealthy, and high-born as you are, the day 
will come when you will be so ruined and disgraced, that 
your only wish in life will be to hide in some spot where 
your enemies will forget you. You will have no friends.’' 

It had seemed beyond the limits of possibility that those 
words would ever be true, spoken of her. 

A day had not yet passed, and the sun of her happiness 
seemed about to set forever. 

At last the fine old mansion loomed up through the trees. 
A minute more, and she had reached the gate. A film 
covered her eyes ; she gasped for breath ; but with a mighty 
efibrt, regained her composure, and looked before her. 
Alice was gone; the gate was closed. 

The shadow of the evergreens fell darkly over the gate- 
way, although it was broad noon, and she stole quietly 
along under the drooping branches. 

The hall-door was wide open, but there was no appear- 
ance of life, or sound of human voice borne on the 
breeze. The hall was the common sitting-room of the 
family, and Mabel’s heart sank drearily as she dragged 
herself forward. It was empty. The parlors were empty, 
and' she felt like a guilty criminal as she ascended the 
oaken staircase. 

§he was nearly to the room occupied by Alice, and for the 
first time heard a murmur of suppressed voices; and then 
all was still as if death had fixed his ‘mournful abode in 
the once cheerful rooms. 

She stood motionless on the dimly lighted stairway, and 
the beating of her heart was the only sound that broke 
the stillness. 

At last her anxiety became too great to be longer con- 


32 


MABEL C L*I F T O N. 

trolled, and with slow and cautious footsteps she made 
her way across the hall, to the room next to her unfortu- 
nate friend. 

It was Mr. Laurence Melville’s room, hut she did not 
care now. Fortunately for the success of her scheme, the 
carpet was thick and heavy, and her footsteps gave back 
no sound. She passed the open doorway without daring 
to look up, and in a moment more was securely hidden 
behind the folds of the sweeping curtains that shaded the 
bay window, and where, unseen herself, she could command 
a full view of the room, so fraught with the happiness of 
her whole future life. She could not look at first,- and 
sank into a chair, faint and giddy. 

“ Alice must be dead, or why the silence that fell as 
heavily, as if it w’ere a shadow left by the grim destroyer.” 
Mabel was not much given to sentiment, but if Alice had 
died from some natural cause, she would have felt some 
sorrow, but now her death would be utter ruin. She would 
be through life a terror to herself and every one. Little 
children would stop in their play, if she came near, and 
she would read in every face distrust and aversion. Even 
if her share in the tragedy was never known, she Avould 
have through life the heavy weight on her heart, and the 
pale, tearful face of Alice w’ould never fade. 

She began to almost hate the sweet countenance that 
had never changed in its love for her, as she shivered, be- 
hind the curtain. At last a musical voice startled her, 
and the blood rushed into her face with a joyful thrill. 

The voice w^ould not have been so calm if all hope was 
over ; and the thought gave her strength to look from her 
hiding-place, an^ know the worst. 

The bed was drawm to the centre of the room, and Alice 
was lying, pale as a lily borne down by some storm ; her 
eyes were closed, and waves of long, fiiir hair were thrown 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


33 


back over tlie pillow, but her lips were apart, and a faint 
pulsation waved the linen that covered her frail form. 

MabeFs first impulse was to throw herself on her knees 
and pour forth her thanks to the Great Father, who had 
mercifully preserved her from bearing through life the 
penalty of her ungovernable anger. Her proud heart was 
softened with momentary tenderness, and the tears stole 
silently down her cheeks. She W'as almost willing to love 
Laurence Melville, and give up her ambitious dreams for- 
ever. 

After a w^hile, she looked out again, and her eye fell on 
the lover for whom she meditated such a sacrifice. He 
was sitting at the foot of the bed, where he could watch 
each change in his sister’s face, although his own was only 
raised now and then. It was deadly pale, and his mouth 
Avas set sternly, Avith a determination that seemed to re- 
quire a seA^ere struggle. While she Avatched him Avith 
Avondering attention, a female figure glided noiselessly to 
the bed. 

An angry flush rose to MabeFs cheek as she recognized 
Annie Raymond. 

What right had she there? the presumptuous creature! ” 

Mabel had persisted in ignoring her existence Avith a 
haughty insolence that could not be mistaken, and that 
Annie, although too amiable to resent Avith the scorn it de- 
served, felt bitterly. Her mother w'as a widow, living on 
the sum allowed her ^ the wdfe oi a deceased officer, and 
her position in society Jvvas as secure as MabeFs OAvn, al- 
though she lived in a quiet, unobtrusive Avay. But Annie 
Avas guilty of the enormity of teaching school, and no 
amount of beauty and elegance could, MabeFs eyes, 
atone for that indiscretion. 

MabeFs indignation at seeing her domesticated so fa- 
miliarly gradually OA^ermastered her contrition and thank- 

C 


34 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


ful spirit, and she watched her with a scowling brow and an 
angry interest that made her forget Alice and her half 
pity for Mr. Melville. 

Annie, utterly unconscious of the flashing eyes following 
her every movement, glided softly to and fro; now drawing 
back a curtain, so that the air would have freer access, 
moistening the lips of the sleeping Alice, and performing 
those kind offices so little in themselves, and yet so neces- 
sary; and all with a gracefulness and tenderness that made 
her look angelic. 

She was very pretty and fairy-like, although she had 
none of the beauty that made Mabel Clifton distinguished, 
in spite of her haughtiness and pride. There never were 
softer brown eyes, or more beautiful 'W’'aves of rippling 
brown hair ; and her mouth was rosy, and dimpled as an 
infant’s. 

She was always gay and happy, and had, withal, a shy 
sweetness of manner that was irresistibly winning. 

Her usually smiling face now ’wore an anxious expres- 
sion, and her e5^es turned to Laurence Melville with a 
mournful, pitying look, as if she would fain comfort him. 

It was not lost on Mabel, and her heart gave an angry 
throb as Annie rose, and, going softly, laid her hand on his 
shoulder. 

He started, and raised his distressed face inquiringly. 

Annie seemed at loss how to commence speaking, and 
looked wistfully in his face ; but, at last, she leaned and 
said something in a low voice. 

IMabel could not hear the words; but Mr. Melville’s 
reply was distinct. 

“Alice will s^n recover ; but it will not all be well with 
Miss Clifton ana myself. It has not been all well for 
some time. My senses have been wrapt in a kind of Ely- 
sian dream ; but the spell is past, and forever. I know 


MABEL CLIFTON’. 


what you would say, in your kindness ; but there was a 
malignant spirit shown in the whole affair that I can never 
forget. It Avas not Miss Clifton’s fault that my sister just 
escaped death ; and I would consider her equally guilty, if 
she had not been hurt in the least. The malignant ex- 
pression of her face haunts me yet.” 

He groaned, and covered his face again. Tears stood 
in Annie’s brown eyes, and she w^as turning away, when 
Mr. Melville raised his face suddenly, and, taking her 
hand, drew her to his side. 

“ How can I thank you for your kindness and sympathy? 
Tell me, little friend.” 

Such a crimson flooded her cheeks, and she trembled so 
violently, that he dropped her hand, though he still looked 
kindly in her face. 

“ I cannot hope that I have been any comfort to you, 
sir ; but the gratitude of my whole life would not repay 
you for the kindness you have shown my mother.” 

Her voice faltered, and she averted her face; but he 
caught her hand to his lips before he released her. 

Mabel, whose indignation almost deprived her of utter- 
ance, now lost all control of her temper, and, brushing 
aside the curtains with the fury of an enraged pythoness, 
suddenly confronted them. 


CHAPTEE V. 


I T ABEL’S anger had brought the color to her cheeks, 
-i- and her eyes sparkled fiercely as she bent them on 
her lover, not even deigning to glance at Annie, who, in her 
terror, drew nearer Mr. Melville. 

He rose to his feet with a quiet majesty that awed 
Mabel for an instant into silence, as he pointed to the 
sleeping Alice, his eye never turning from the face of his 
betrothed — his countenance never changing from its fixed 
sorrow, as he surveyed her with earnest mournfulness. 

She had never looked so beautiful ; and he felt an 
almost uncontrollable impulse to throw himself at her 
feet, and beg her to forgive the words he had just spoken. 
Everything was forgotten but the love, that at sight of her, 
returned with tenfold force. He conquered the weakness 
almost instantly, as he drew near to her with stern gravity, 
and said in a low tone, — 

“Any agitation now may prove fatal to Alice.” 

She interrupted him, her haughty lips trembling with 
the effort to restrain her anger. 

“It would be more candid, and more to the purpose, sir, 
if you were to say that my mal a propos appearance dis- 
turbed a very interesting love-scene. You probably never 
understood fully the words of the song, — 

‘ Be sure you are off with the old love, 

Before you are on with the new’ ? ” 

She spoke in a tone of cutting irony; and Annie tried 
to shrink farther into the shadow, her checks flushing and 


MABEL CLIFTON. 37 

paling, and slie, poor child, longing to steal away where 
she would never again meet Mr. Melville’s eye. 

“ How he must despise me,” she thought, with sudden 
anguish. 

But he was not thinking of her at all. Mabel’s words 
fell on his ear — meaningless sounds. He was taking a 
mournful farewell of the face before him, so dear that to lose 
its loveliness would be to lose w^hat he most prized in life. 

A mist covered his eyes, and he leaned against the bed 
as if for support. 

“ Mabel ! Mabel ! ” he murmured softly, with a lingering 
accent on the name, “ how I have loved you ? ” 

There was a pathos in his tone that found its way even 
to her heart ; and she looked at him curiously, and with a 
half-relenting expression on her haughty face. 

“ Mabel ! ” he said again, holding out his hand. 

She advanced a step ; her eye fell on Annie, and the 
softening expression changed to indignation. 

His love was an insult after what had passed. He had 
censured her conduct and spoken of her bitterly to a per- 
• son she scorned to notice. She had forgotten it for a mo- 
ment ; but the remembrance returned with angry force, 
and her eyes flashed indignantly as she walked proudly 
from the room. 

She turned suddenly at the door. He had followed her, 
and they stood face to face. She was silent for a moment, 
and her scorn was so intense that he drew back involun- 
tarily, even before she spoke. 

“ How dare you follow me, sir ! You seem to have for- 
gotten the comments just now passed on my unworthy self. 
To what shall I attribute this sudden change of sentiment?” 

Mr. Melville spoke li^itatingly, and with evident pain, — * 

“ Miss Clifton, I can never sufficiently regret that, in the 
weakness of desperation, I said what should never have 
4 


88 


MABEL CLIFTON. 




passed my lips while our engagement was uncancelled. 
The love I professed for you once — ” 

She had taken no notice of his words, but was drawing 
off her glove, and he stopped abruptly as her intention 
became plain to him. 

J ust then Alice stirred uneasily, and sat up, with a look 
of affright on her face. 

“ Laurence, what is the matter ? ” 

He turned, and, with a cry of joy, she saw Mabel, and 
stretched out her arms to her. 

“ O Mabel ! you were not angry, after all ; dear Mabel, ' 
come to me!” and her blue eyes looked wildly earnest. 

Mabel hesitated a moment, and then an expression of 
tenderness softened her face, as she hurried to the bed and 
caught Alice in her arms. 

“Have you forgiven me?” she whispered. Alice drew 
her face down and kissed her by way of answer, and with 
her head against Mabel’s shoulder, closed her eyes with a 
pleased, tranquil smile, opening them in a little while to 
see if her friend were still there, and finally dropped 
asleep. 

Mabel laid her softly on the pillow, and stooped and 
kissed her forehead ere she left her. 

Laurence Melville was still at the door. He stepped 
aside to let her pass. She paused an instant, and taking 
the diamond ring from her finger — the ring he had given 
her — flung it at his feet, the same malignant expression 
on her face as when she pushed Alice from her. 

The look recalled Mr. Melville to his senses. He brushed 
the ring aside with his foot and followed her. 

She had reached the first landing, and he stood by her 
side. 

“ Miss Clifton, you will at least allow me to attend you 
home.” She did not so much as turn her face toward him, 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


39 


but he went on steadily : “ If you mean that our engage- 
ment should end, for both our sakes, the proprieties of life 
must be observed. It is plain you never loved me — but 
there are no wishes of yours that will not have weight with 
me in the future. As to the world’s construction of this 
separation, I care little, but what explanation shall I give 
Mr. Clifton?” 

She had now reached the door, and he walked beside her 
dowm the gravel path, w^aiting for her answ^er, and looking 
very stern and determined, and very unlike the despairing 
lover he had shown himself a short time previous. 

His words awakened Mabel to a sense of the importance 
of the step she had taken. She knew how her father’s 
heart w^as set on that very engagement — and in a moment 
of anger she had broken it. 

But w^as not her provocation sufficient ? She had over- 
heard Mr. Melville censuring her in the strongest terms to 
a lady with whom she had scarcely a speaking acquaint- 
ance. Her heart gave a joyful throb, but as suddenly 
sank. 

Mr. Clifton would insist upon hearing the very words 
used, and that w'ould involve a confession of the unlady- 
like act of wdiich she had been guilty. It was plain that 
excuse would never answ’er. 

She w^as in despair, and glanced furtively in her com- 
panion’s face ; she read there no sign of relenting or weak- 
ness. 

His lips w’ere firmly set, and he looked as cold and 
distant as though he had never loved her. 

The gate was reached, and still she did not speak, and 
they walked in silence along the quiet street. 

The afternoon shadows were lengthening, but it was not 
yet time for the promcnaders who thronged the pavement 
at a later hour. 


40 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


They left the town, and the silence had been unbroken 
as they entered the avenue leading to Miss Clifton’s home. 

The setting sun streamed brightly across their path and 
lighted the rich coloring of the foliage above them — but 
they did not notice. " 

Mr. Melville’s summer sky had been too suddenly over- 
cast with clouds, he could see no beauty in inanimate things. 
He had loved Mabel so absorbingly, that he had borne 
coldness and disdain ; and he loved her still, and loving 
her, could not help thinking he had been too hasty. She 
was so young — only seventeen — and every fault had been 
fostered by over-indulgence. 

In censuring her so bitterly he had wronged her, and 
with glaring faults himself, expected to find her perfection. 

If he could only feel she loved him, his duty would be 
plain. 

He stopped and laid his hand on her arm. “Miss 
Clifton — Mabel — answer me one question. I never before 
had courage to ask you. But first,” — and he lowered his 
voice, — “I was wrong to speak of you as I did, and I 
humbly ask your pardon ! ” She was still silent. “ Yv’’e 
will forget the unkind words, and the circumstances that 
led to them. Shall it be so ? ” 

Mabel bowed her head in assent. She had never come 
so near loving him. Besides, in the long, silent walk, she 
decided that her only course was to win him back. 

She could not brave her father’s anger, and to engage 
herself to Laurence Melville was very different from 
marrying him. If she accepted him again, her fate was in 
her own hands. 

Her heart gave a joyful throb as he addressed her so 
kindly. He was not inexorable after all. She glanced 
at him furtively. His face was pale and agitated, and 
his eyes downcast. / 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


41 


She laid her hand imploringly on his arm, and the fear 
that she might fail, after all, gave an earnestness and timid- 
ity to her manner that touched his heart at once. 

“ Laurence, you are so strong and firm, you cannot un- 
derstand my weakness. If you knew how I struggle to 
control my temper, and the remorse I feel after every 
outbreak, you would pity, if you could no longer love 
me.” 

Her beautiful face was partly shaded by her veil, but 
tears were in her eyes, and her voice trembled. 

There was a fierce struggle in his mind, but he looked 
again in her face, and every doubt was silenced. 

He took her hand and pressed it passionately to his lips; 
and she leaned until her hair almost touched his cheek, as 
she whispered softly, — 

“ Must we say good-bye forever, Laurence ? ” 

He threw his arm around her and looked searchingly 
into her face ; her eyes were cast down, but the long lashes 
were wet with tears. 

“Mabel, darling, if. I could only feel that you loved me, 
I wmuld not fear for the future, if you would only give mo 
your dear hand again. 

“ Answer me truly. Do you love me ? If you do not, 
we must part forever. It will be better now, than to each 
of us the misery of a whole life. 

“As you hope for happiness in your dying hour, do not 
deceive ine ! ” 

She had turned her face from him, and there was a wild 
struggle in her undisciplined heart. 

Why should she deceive him ? What was her father’s 
anger, compared to the sin that would hang like a cloud 
over the future, now so filled with hope. 

ITer guardian angel pleaded with her in that moment, 
and all that was good and womanly in her nature. 

4 * 


42 


51 A B E L C L I F T O X. 


m 


She had never sinned so dreadfully as she would sin, 
if she made Laurence Melville believe she loved him. 
She had been proud and haughty, selfish and ambitious, 
but she had never stooped to falsehood and deceit. 

Heretofore she had made no professions. Laurence 
Melville was kind and generous enough to be her friend, 
if she told him all. And her father would not be unrea- 
sonable, if he thought she acted in a firm, womanly man- 
ner, instead of being guided by caprice. 

It seemed as if she were deciding her destiny for good 
or evil. 

Laurence had released her, and was standing with folded 
arms, awaiting her decision in an agony of suspense, hope 
and fear alternating. 

Again and again she wavered, but evil slowly triumphed. 

It would not be so bad, after all, to deceive him ; the 
nonsense of her dying hour being affected by it, was 
too absurd ! He deserved some punishment for the flimsy 
affectation. 

There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at 
the flood, leads on to fame and fortune.’' 

And there is a tide in our moral destiny of more fear- 
ful import. The hour of our first great temptation, a 
time of trial, when our guardian angel might take flight 
forever, and the sin we yield to will color our whole 
future life. 

It may be only a slight sin — a mere speck — but it will 
become darker and darker, until it is as 

“Black as the damning drops that fall 
From the denouncing angel’s pen ; ” 

And, alas ! it is not always that 

“Mercy weeps them out again.” 




CHAPTER VI. 



T ABEL had now reached the hour of decision between 


LtX the two fates who should watch over her destiny, and 
she turned from her guardian angel, and yielded to the 
spirit of evil. 

The awe she felt for a brief moment was gone, and there 
was not a shadow on her face as she turned to her lover. 

He did not move or raise his eyes from the ground ; but 
looked like one prepared to bear manfully the disappoint- 
ment that would wreck his life. 

She put her hand through his arm : — 

“ I will not let pride destroy our happiness. Must I say 
more? ” 

Her playful tone jarred painfully on his heart, in spite 
of the joy and sudden hope her words awakened, and he 
grasped her hands almost fiercely, and looked at her as if 
he would read her inmost soul. 

“ Then you love me, Mabel ? ” 

She could not meet his searching gaze ; but she hid her 
face on his shoulder, and her voice trembled as she an- 
swered softly, — 

‘‘ Can you doubt me, Laurence?” ^ 

He wound his arms round her, in a sudden embrace, 
calling her endearing names, and pouring forth, in a wild 
torrent, the love he had never before found courage to 
speak so plainly. 

It was her first sacrifice to the tempter ; but it was in- 
evitable. Her pride had heretofore protected her pure 


43 


44 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


womanly nature — the “angel gift” that sometimes lingers 
in a wicked woman’s heart, 

“ Like a holy thing, and blest.” 

She accepted Laurence Melville at her father’s com- 
mand ; but she had professed no love for him. A queen 
could not have received his homage with more dignified 
reserve. An occasional pressure of her hand was a most 
daring act on his part. He would never be her husband ! 
— she did not love him ! — and yet his arms encircled her, 
and her heart gave no answering throb to the heart beating 
so close to her own. 

It was a dreadful moment. She loathed herself, and her 
very soul revolted from the caress and kisses that were 
horrible in their very truth and fervor. 

She could not turn her face to the sky : she felt as if 
angels must blush for her. 

Laurence Melville did not dream of the struggle in her 
heart. That she loved him, was a belief that came thrill- 
ing with happiness. She was to him an angel of purity 
and beauty, and he thought with rapture that she was his 
own, now, in life and through eternity. 

Mabel’s breath came thick and fast, and her cheeks were 
almost purple — they burned with such intensity. 

He still held her hands clasped tightly, and was smooth- 
ing the hair from her forehead, but he looked alarmed as 
the color faded from her cheek and left her deadly pale. 

“ You are rft)t well, dear. You needed rest, after all this 
excitement, and I have kept you so long. It was very 
selfish,” and he looked contrite and distressed. 

“ I am tired and worn out,” she said languidly. “ I will 
say good night here,” and she tried to release her hand. 

“ Shall I not go with you to the door,” he asked implor- 
ingly. 


MABEL CLIFTON.- 


45 


“ No,” she said, shrinking from him with such a strange, 
frightened expression that his heart sank. 

Perhaps she did not love him, after all. She had rather 
endured than returned his caresses ; but he immediately- 
reproached himself for the thought, and his face cleared. 

She had been watching him with a mixture of dread and 
apprehension, and held, out her hand as he came toward 
her. 

He took the soft, waxen palm in boj;h his, and looked 
tenderly in her face. 

“ May Heaven forever bless you, my darling, and make 
you as happy as you have now made me,” and, with an- 
other pressure of the hand, he left her. She watched him 
with a singular mixture of aversion and liking, struggling 
with her regret at having accepted him again, and horror 
of herself and the trials each day would bring. 

She felt, as she watched his retreating figure, that she 
would either love or hate him to such an extent that she 
would be tempted to kill him or herself if the struggle 
were long. She could not tell which she would do, in the 
end, and she flung herself on the grassy turf, under the 
shadow of some vines, and w'ept and wrung her hands in 
anger, remorse, and despair. 

There was little need of her grief, so far as seeing 
Laurence Melville was concerned, for they were never 
destined to meet again until the circling years had borne 
them each toward the goal where time ends, and where, 
with one of them, the cares and sorrows of life would soon 
be merged in the ocean of eternity. 

Laurence Melville hastened homeward so blithe and 
happy that he felt like blessing everybody. He would not 
think of the sadness of the morning, or the malignant 
spirit Mabel had shown. 


i 


i. 


46 ■ 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


“ Slie loved him, and even her faults should be sacred.” 
He was unsparing to his owm, however, and could not suf- 
ficiently regret his unmanly censure of her conduct to 
Annie Eaymond. The remembrance was anything but 
pleasant, and he could never meet Annie without thinking 
of the want of resj)ect he had shown his promised bride ; 
but a remembrance of Annie’s discreet, gentle manner 
and unvarying friendship dispelled his momentary annoy- 
ance, and he blessed her in his heart as he thought of her 
attempts to excuse Mabel. 

He ran joyfully up the stairs to his sifter’s jroom, but 
paused on the threshold, with a half dread at his heart and 
a reproachful pang at having left her so Jong. 

The moonbeams streamed softly through the open win- 
dow and lighted every object distinctly. Alice was still 
sleeping a soft, natural sleep, and he stooped and kissed 
her with a blissful feeling of relief, and a tenderness deeper 
than he had ever before felt, though she had been the pet 
of his childhood and the treasure left him by his dying 
parents. 

She was a little lisping child when his mother gave her 
into his arms, one pleasant June morning, and bade him 
“make her happiness his first care.” He had promised, 
with tears in his eyes, and his boyish heart swelling, and 
when he pressed his lips to her rosy, dimpled cheeks, a bird 
‘poured forth its joyous carol from the elm-tree by the win- 
dow, and the room was filled with its melody. 

His mother smiled and said faintly, “ It is a good omen, 
my son, — a promise of gladness,” and with the words her 
spirit soared to the land beyond the sun. It was to her 
the omen that heralded her spirit’s fliglit to the golden 
shores of eternity. 

His father died when Alice was still a child, and tlie 
promise had been renewed then, “You will never bring a 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


47 


wife who Alice does not like, to the old home ; he faltered, 
and Laurence had no thought but to obey the request. 

Alice loved Mabel devotedly, and although after the 
scene he thought would never fade from his memory, — now 
so nearly effaced, at least its bitterness, — he had felt that he 
must never subject his sister to a temper so unkind as Ma- 
bel had shown ; yet her tenderness afterward, contrasted 
as it was with scorn of him, softened his resolution, if it 
could not entirely silence his doubts. 

“ Where can Annie be ? ” he asked himself, by way of 
getting rid of unpleasant thoughts. 

He saw her at last, sitting in the shadow of the window- 
seat, wdth the curtain draped around her, and the outline 
of her figure just visible. 

Brushing aside the folds, he seated himself beside her, 
and, from the expression of her wild, startled faee, he 
thought he must have frightened her coming so suddenly, 
and apologized, adding in the same breath, — 

“ I have something to tell you, little friend,” — she 
glaneed up eagerly, — and yet I scarcely know how to 
commence.” 

He looked away from her, and laughing a little, went on 
to explain his apparent want of consistency, alluding to his 
promise to his father, and finding it all very awkward, 
and on the whole unexplainable, when he was ‘startled by 
a smothered sob, and to his surprise, Annie’s face was bur- 
ied in her hands, and she was weeping bitterly. 

Mabel’s words had opened her eyes to the fact that not 
as a friend or for his kindness to her mother did she love 
Mr. Melville, but dearer than all the world beside. 

The time, to him so short, spent with Mabel, had been the 
bitterest hours of Annie’s life. 

To meet him with the knowledge of her secret was a 


48 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


trial; but to listen to his kind words and his love for 
another, was more than she could endure. 

Mr. Melville had always liked Annie, and her prompt- 
ness and kindly assistance to Alice endeared her more than 
ever. He placed his arm round her in a soothing way, as if 
she were a child, and smoothed her hair caressingly. In 
a little while she regained her composure,_and told him in 
a low voice, — “That she was not well ; he must not think 
her usually so nervous.” — She assented gratefully when he 
said “she must not sit up any longer,” and felt like a 
reprieved criminal when he left her to call a servant. — 
It was her first grief, and she could not control her love 
or her tears as yet. 

It was some time before Annie emerged from the friendly 
shadow of the curtain, and her steps were unsteady, and 
her face so pale, that Mr. Melville, shocked and startled, 
hurried to her assistance. 

She trembled violently, and there was something in the 
expression of her eyes, as she raised them to his for an 
instant, that told him all her secret. 

She seemed to feel that he knew it, for she stopped and 
leaned heavily on his arm, the color coming and going in 
her face. Twice she attempted to speak, and her lips 
moved. He leaned to hear her — but she only said im- 
ploringly: “I must go home.” 

He made her sit on the sofa until he called some one to 
. stay with Alice, and he wrapped a shawl around her care- 
^ fully, and had her drink some wine ; and his gentle air of 
.resolution and quiet kindliness were so soothing, that she 
became more composed than she had thought was possible; 
when he finally pronounced her well enough to go, he accom- 
panied her himself, and they walked silently along the 
quiet streets until she reached her mother’s cottage. 

There was a little quaint portico, covered w-ith honey- 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


49 


suckles, and she paused at the entrance and withdrew her 
hand timidly from his arm. 

She looked so pretty in the softened moonlight, and her 
girlish face wore such a look of resigned calm, that his 
heart ached to comfort her. 

He thought her feeling for him was but a youthful fancy 
— short-lived and trivial, but he felt very sorry, never- 
theless, and held both_her little hands as he said kindly: 

“Annie, if you ever need a friend, will you promise to 
come to me? There are but two persons in the world dearer 
than yourself — wull you always trust me?’’ 

Annie looked up in his face with a trusting smile, and he 
stooped and kissed her on the forehead, and left her to all 
the desolation of a first sorrow, not dreaming how great it 
was — and thinking, it must be confessed, more of his beauti- 
ful Mabel, and the future, now glowing with roseate hues, 
than aught in the 'world besides. 

6 B 


CHAPTER VIL 


M r. CLIFTON rode slowly away, tlie warm October 
breezes toying with his clustering hair still soft and 
glossy. The bridle-reins hung loosely, and the horse cropped 
the herbage unchecked, for his master, absorbed in' a dream 
of long ago, had forgotten the years that had elapsed, and 
the changes time had made. 

They were pleasant visions of life in Rome, before his 
return to the United States, and when he revelled in the 
beauties of the Eternal City like a child at a feast, without 
a thought of care or sorrow in the future. Its flowery ruins 
were the embodiment of beauty, and to wander at will 
among the gloomy corridors of the Colosseum the height 
of -his ambition. 

That beautiful spring-time came back as freshly as if it 
had been only yesterday; the odor of the violets and the 
rich bloom of the columbines seemed borne on the autum- 
nal breeze, as he recalled all the places he loved so well. 

The campagua, with its carpet of flowers and its atmos- 
phere of perfume wafted from hyacinths, and the golden 
sunshine like an amber cloud around and above him. 

He was not alone in his \vanderings in those happy early 
days, and his pulse beat quicker as he recalled the face and 
flg.ure of his companion, — his beautiful Beatrice, with her 
rich color and flashing eyes, and the waves of purply-black 
hair that fell to her feet in heavy masses. 

There was one moonlight evening, the last they had ever 
spent together. He had scarcely dared to think of it in 
all the long years, but he would recall it now. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


51 


They were sitting side by side on a fallen column, with 
the fantastic arches, crow^ded with heavy foliage rising 
high abqve them ; the stone work glittering in the silvery 
light, and the silence so intense, that the beating of their 
hearts was distinctly audible. 

She had loosened her hair, and it fell over her like a 
veil, and the solemn beauty around them, and the softened 
light on her upturned face gave her a look of innocence an 
angel might have worn. 

Her face, though beautiful, was generally wild and pas- 
sionate. She was more like a Gipsy queen than the angels 
we dream of; but love and moonlight work great trans- 
formations, and she seemed an angel to him. It vras then 
she told him her little history with a faltering voice. 

Her mother had been a Gipsy, and a poor artist loved 
and married her, and they were so happy for two years, 
that Eden seemed not fairer to our first parents than life to 
them; but consumption, like a serpent, had stolen into 
their paradise, and her father sickened and died, and life 
was over to her poor mother, before the flowers bloomed 
twice over his grave. 

Galatina, one of the tribe, who loved her mother so well 
that he gave ^p his free, roving life to serve her, had taken 
the charge she left. “He has been everything to me until 
you came,” she murmured, her eyes glistening with tears, 
as she raised them to her lover’s face ; and his heart sank at 
the thought of the tidings that would fall with such a 
crushing weight on her young spirit. 

It had lain heavily on his heart all the day long during 
his farewell to the scenes he had loved so well. 

The pictures and treasures of art, before which he had 
been wont to stand entranced, could not charm him into 
forgetfulness or lift the shadowTroni.4>he future. 

Guido and Baphael’s choicest wWks appealed to him 


52 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


in vain, and the emotions. “The Dying Gladiator were 
wont to recall, faded before the reality of the trouble that 
had fallen upon him. 

The colossal ruins of the baths of Caracalla, or the 
chariot-worn pavements of the Appian Way, brought 
no visions of the ancient Romans he had been wont to 
bring again from Jhe aisles of the past, in his romantic 
miisings. He could only think of the present and all he 
would lose. 

He loved the “ Eternal City,” her palaces, her works of 
art, and her flowery ruins, — “her majesty and her decay.” 
But above all he loved his beautiful Beatrice, and he must 
leave her for weary months, perhaps forever. 

His father was lying ill in the land so far removed from 
poetic beauty, and the order for his return was as inexo- 
rable as if it had been the fiat issued by the grim Destroyer, 

“Who cuts with his sickle keen 
The giant oak and the bearded grain, 

And the flowers that grow between.” 

He could not now take with him to his American home 
the beautiful flower-girl he loved so well, but he would re- 
turn again to claim her as his own, and their lives would 
be one long dream of delight, under the enchanted skies 
of Italy, and they would only awaken to the bliss of loving, 
in a clime of beauty and romance. 

That would be “ a joy forever.” 

He told her all this, as they sat among the beautiful 
ruins, the blue dome above them so transparent, they might 
almost hope to catch a glimpse of the heavens shining 
through. 

They sat together all that lovely spring night, her hand 
clasped in his, and her head resting on his shoulder; and 
when the moon had set and the morning star glistened in 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


53 


the east, they went together to a monk they knew, and 
spoke the solemn words that should have hound them 
together for life. 

It was not a legal marriage ; Mr. Clifton was well aware, 
there was neither license nor witnesses. But it would com- 
fort Beatrice in his absence. And he fondly hoped that 
his aristocratic father, finding his objections came too late, 
would overcome his disappointment, and be reconciled, in 
time, to a marriage to which his consent could never 
have been obtained. 

But his father was even then sleeping his last sleep in 
the family vault. And Mr. Clifton, on his return, found 
neither welcome nor reproof awaiting him from the parent 
whom no penitence or remorse could restore. 

He was now the owner of broad lands, on which rested 
a heavy debt, — a debt he was powerless to cancel ; but he 
turned indignantly from his mother, when she informed 
him that it had been her husband’s wish that he should 
marry his 'wealthy cousin, destined from her cradle to be 
his bride 

“ My hand and heart must go together,” he answered 
sternly; but when he found that his marriage withJNIiss 
Clifton was necessary to keep his father’s name from dis- 
grace, he yielded to his mother’s prayers and entreaties, 
and made the last few years of her life happy. 

She never dreamed of the sacrifice he made, or the sin 
he committed, and died, blessing him, and leaving him, as 
she thought, the happy possessor of wealth, and all the 
world could offer to make him blest. 

Life was to him then a picture from which the coloring 
was taken; but as years passed, he grew reconciled to his 
fate, and became a worldly, fashionable man, to whom 
sentiment was a stranger. 

When he found his marriage, or disgrace, to the proud 


5 * 


51 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


name of Clifton inevitable, lie arranged with a banker in 
New York to forward to Beatrice, yearly, a sura of money 
that would keep her in luxury. He then resolutely deter- 
mined to forget the past, as he trusted she would do, when 
she knew their separation was eternal. 

He vanished as completely from her path as a meteor 
passes from the sky ; and the recollection of her faded as 
the years rolled on, and he grew to like his prosaic life. 

The romance of his youth faded with his love, and the 
dreamer who expected to live* an Arcadian, became a 
complete man of the world, prizing its hollow mockeries, 
and the brightest ornament of its most glittering circles. 

It had been long years since he thought of those early 
days, except to smile at his folly. But now old recollec- 
tions came thronging back, and the present glowed with 
lines borrowed from the past. 

Suddenly he remembered a little rocky ledge, over- 
looking a beautiful ravine; — he had loved it in boyhood, 
and there was a spot in Italy that recalled it. It would 
be pleasant to sit there once more, since he had allowed 
himself the folly of dreaming. He dismounted, and leav- 
ing his horse to graze at will, walked slowly on, absorbed 
in early visions that thronged with a delicious freshness 
that quickened his pulses. 

He clambered up the rocks, and seated himself in a 
mossy nook sheltered by laurels, and fragrant with the 
odor of wintergreen and pink arbutus. The illusion was 
perfect; the daisies raised their tiny blossoms above the 
green turf, and the glossy laurels gave a glimpse of the blue 
sky above, and shut out the brilliant hues of the forest- 
trees. 

It was a peep into the Elysium of old, and he rejoiced 
in it as one who after wandering in the desert, finds an 
oasis, and quenches his thirst with the sparkling waters. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


55 


There was a rustling of the bushes at the foot of the 
rocks, and with a sigh for the dream so rudely dispelled, 
he parted the laurel hedge, and looked down. A mist 
covered his eyes, — had his senses left him, or was he 
dreaming? — for there before him was Beatrice, beautiful 
as when he saw her last, — her long hair sweeping over 
her superb figure, and the rich crimson flushing her cheeks, 
as when he sat beside her at Rome, eighteen years before. 

He covered his face with his hands, and it was long be- 
fore he could look again. She had thrown herself down 
against the rugged rock, and her face was shaded by heavy 
masses of hair. She was talking between her sobs, in the 
soft Italian tongue, that thrilled his veins like an old and 
once-loved strain of musio ; — now murmuring his name 
softly, and again, with all the wild vehemence of her clime, 
blaming herself for loving one so false and treacherous. 
And then she took a little paper from her bosom, a half- 
wprn note, yellow with age. 

It was the note written by him before his marriage, 
telling her to forget him, and be happy ; that a fate he 
was powerless to resist separated them, and he was hence- 
forth dead to her. But his love would be hers until they 
met in the land of shadows. 

He could recall the words, long ago as they had been 
3 some remembrances time is powerless 



The note was blistered by her tears, and she kissed it 
again and again, and pressed it to her heart, — telling the 
pathetic story of her wanderings, as if it were a living 
thing, and could understand and pity her, — telling of 
hopeless years of waiting, and weary wanderings in crowded 
cities and dusty plains, — how Galatina at last proposed 
her joining the band of Gipsies to which her mother once 
belonged ; and how, after her toilsome wanderings, she had 
found him — alas ! wedded to another. 


56 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


Her grief and despair at this proof of his falsity were 
lost in the fear that Galatina would discover her lover’s 
perfidy, and avenge her wrong. 

Her anger melted at the thought of his danger ; she was 
all a woman then, and only remembered she loved him, 
and how kind he had been in the olden days. At last she 
became quite calm, and began humming a little song he 
had taught her, — 

“ Like the fawn, who finds the fountain 
With an arrow in his breast; 

Or like the rain upon the mountain, 

Where the snows must ever rest.” 

The aptness of the words to her own case seemed to strike 
her suddenly. Her exquisite voice faltered, and she wept 
like a tired child, her head resting against the rough rock, 
and her face partly visible, and pale, and sorrowful. 

Time has wrought many changes. He is a very con- 
queror. Cities and palaces tremble at his touch, but mor- 
tals seem his surest prey. 

The maiden in her tender beauty, and manhood in his 
prime, must bow before him ; but although he can change 
the glossy hair, and palsy the firm, vigorous step, there is 
one thing he is powerless to do, — he cannot destroy the 
first pure love that wakens us into new being. 

He may seemingly obliterate it, and pile high over it 
the ruins of other’s hopes, — “but like truth in the bottom 
of the well,” it shines brightly amid the rubbish. 

Mr. Clifton’s love had lain for years covered with the 
rubbish of worldly cares and pleasures, but at sight of 
Beatrice it burst forth again, overthrowing every barrier, 
and pervading his whole being. 

There is a little poem that tells of a minstrel who loved 
a titled maiden, so far above him that she would have fiillen 
like the lost Pleiad had she wed him, and so he left her. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


67 


She gave him her hand at parting, and long years after, 
when he was old, and blind with age, she lauded on the 
shore where he was tuning his harp to the melancholy dirge 
of the waves that parted them half a century before, and 
he knew her by the touch of her hand. 

Mr. Clifton could not go to Beatrice, and comfort her as 
the high-born lady did the poor minstrel, though his love 
was only equalled by his pity for all she had suffered. His 
heart ached to shield and comfort her once more, and the 
love so long suppressed burst forth warm and passionate 
as in his early youth. 

He was not a very good man, but he was too honorable 
to the wife who had so long .shared his name, repaired his 
fortune, and loved him as much as she could any one, to 
forget the respect due her. 

Pride was, after all, the strongest impulse of his nature; 
he had married his cousin, and given up the woman he 
loved, to keep his fathePs memory from being dishonored 
by the knowledge that would have otherwise been public 
that he had used a portion of the fortune intrusted to his 
care, — and he now left the woman whose life he had 
blighted, without one word of kindness, although his pres- 
ence would have repaid her for weary years. 

He stole quietly away when she had fallen into a heavy 
sleep from sheer exhaustion, and like one in a dream 
mounted his horse and turned on his homeward way. 

There was but one course to pursue : he must leave his 
home quietly, and without a clue by which he might be 
traced. Beatrice was not legally his wife; but the fact 
that she had the shadow of a claim to his protection, in- 
volved as long a train of evils as the most formal marriage 
contract. 

There arose before him a revolting picture of a sepa- 
ration from his wife, and the obloquy and disgrace that 


68 


MABEL CLIFTOJ^. 


would attacli to a name he had sacrificed all the hopes of 
his youth to retain unsullied. 

Of late years he had looked upon his boyish afiair as a 
youthful misdemeanor, and his legal marriage as a step to- 
ward reformation ; but now he felt the sin in all its horror. 
The vows he made to Beatrice had been registered in 
heaven, and love had sanctified them. 

It was his first wrong step, and involved all the train of 
misery that followed ; and that, slumbering for a time, 
seemed only to have been accumulating strength to burst 
with ruin on his head. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


T he gray shadows of early twilight were closing round 
Mr. Clifton as he entered the gate leading to his house. 
The massive pile loomed up dimly through the gathering 
darkness, and seemed to him an omen of the troubles that, 
clustering thick and fast, seemed to close around his ill- 
fated destiny. ^ ’ 

He might have accepted the light that soon flashed 
brightly from every window as a pleasant omen ; but he 
was too depressed to imagine anything but trouble for his 
future lot. 

It was not alone the disgraceful error of his youth that 
was about to involve his haughty wife and beautiful 
daughter in its terrible consequences, but the shock of 
seeing in all its wickedness the sin he then committed so 
lightly. 

Could he alone expiate the error, he would think any 
punishment but justly merited, for had he not made one 
life miserable? but the disgrace he tried to avert by a 
crime, like the sword of Damocles, was now suspended over 
his head, and would involve all he loved in the ruin. 

He had no time to indulge in useless repinings ; the name 
he risked so much to save, must not be sacrificed now, and 
his sudden departure would be the only way to avert the 
danger if he failed ; but no ! he would not contemplate the 
possibility of failure, or think of Beatrice alone in her sor- 
row, — Beatrice, to whom he could not be true without 
being false to his most sacred duties. 

There were but five hours for preparation, as the ex- 
press-train was due at twelve. 


69 


60 


MABEL CLIFTOIT. 


Supper was waiting, the servant informed him, and to 
his great relief he found, upon inquiry, there were no guests. . 

He ordered some tea in the library, and paused at the 
door to tell the servant, ‘‘the family would be at home to 
no visitorp that evening.” Mrs. Clifton’s surprise at this 
order, of which she was promptly informed, was extreme, 
and scarcely left room for disappointment, though an 
evening spent alone was an unheard-of calamity. 

Society was the one excitement of her life ; and even in 
a city it would have been difficult to find more elegance 
an^ aristocracy than were comjjrised in the exclusive circle 
— of which she was a shining ornament — for which the pic- 
turesque little town was noted. 

Mrs. Clifton was simply an ornament, for she could 
never be said to converse, but she could listen agreeably ; 
and her faultless taste in dress, and the exquisite repose of 
her manner, gave character and interest to her haughty 
face. 

She could almost have been called animated for once, 
as she entered the library eager to know the cause for an 
order so singular. 

Her husband was so absorbed with papers strewn on the 
table before him, that he did not notice her entrance, and 
she was by his side and had laid her hand on his arm to 
arrest his attention, before he stirred. He looked up at the 
sound of her voice, and a shade of remorse crossed his face 
as he noted her delicate beauty ; was it the flush in her 
usually colorless cheek, or the black velvet and diamonds 
that made her so radiant ? How little he had prized her 
love, or brightened her existence! He bent and pressed his 
lips with a remorseful tenderness to the white, jewelled hand 
■ resting on his arm, and there was a something in his voice 
she had never heard before, not even in the early days of 
marriage, as he said gently, forgetting he had not informed 
her of the sudden change in his plans, — 


MABEL CLIFTON. 61 

“ I am too busy to talk to you, Florence — our time is 
limited.” 

The unusual caress, and her unfeigned surprise, deepened 
the flush on her cheek ; she scarcely noted the tone, though 
memory recalled it, after a time, with thrilling exactness. 

“ Surprise ” absorbed every other faculty.. If insanity 
had been in the Clifton family, she would have thought 
him insane ; as it was, she could only look at him and won- 
der. Her amazed face recalled him to his senses, and in as 
few words as possible, he informed her of his intended de- 
parture and the short time allowed her for preparation. 

She w^as completely overwhelmed by the intelligence, aiid 
ventured a faint remonstrance. 

“ She had issued cards for a dinner-party the last -of the 
week.” Mr. Clifton assured her that his business ad- 
mitted of no delay ; but her despairing look, as she pro- 
nounced her inability to be ready so soon, and her helpless, 
dejected air, proved very conclusively the truth of her state- 
ment. 

His impatient exclamation added the finishing stroke to 
her perplexities, and she burst into a flpod of tears. 

It was impossible to try argument, or even entreaty, at 
this crisis, and hysterics seemed inevitable. There was no 
recourse but to act without Mrs. Clifton’s assistance or 
concurrence. So he rang for the housekeeper and gave 
directions for Mrs. Clifton’s wardrobe to be gotten ready 
immediately for a long journey — and .soon all was bustle 
and confusion. No one dared to ask a question, and Mr. 
Clifton stood calmly at the library-door, issuing orders, and 
apparently unmoved by the sobs that occasionally reached 
his ear from the lounge wFere his wife had taken refuge. 

The bustle and hurrying to and fro startled Mabel, who 
had gone directly to her own room on leaving the grove, 
and she opened her door and inquired into the cause of the 
tumult. 6 


62 


MABEL CLIETOISL 


The housekeeper was passing with some dresses on her 
arm, and could only say: “Mr. and Mrs. Clifton were go- 
ing abroad, that was all she knew.” 

Mabel hurried down to the library, almost breathless 
with joy ; she would not allow herself to believe she could 
be left behind. Mr. Clifton was again at his writing-desk. 
He pushed aside his papers and looked up with a shade of 
impatience in his manner, as Mabel stood before him, 
flushed and eager. 

“ Is it true, father, are we really going ? ” He felt proud 
of 1^ beautiful daughter, and his heart sank at the thought 
of iier ever knowing of the disgrace threatening the name 
she bore so regally. 

Pie did not answer at once ; perhaps it would be best to 
urge her marriage with Mr. Melville. 

If Beatrice, insisting upon the legality of the ceremony 
performed several months before his marriage with Mabel’s 
mother, should follow him, his life would not be a pleasant 
one for a brilliant young girl to share. He would be ob- 
liged to live quietly, and flee from place to place, to elude 
the search of Beatrice, as if he were a second Cain. 

Mabel’s heart throbbed with apprehension ; his silence was 
death to her hopes, and sh-e sank intd a chair, almost faint- 
ing with disappointment, her eyes fixed eagerly on her 
father’s pale, wan face. 

He looked up at last, and said abruptly: “Mabel, we 
are leaving the United States forever ; do you still wish to 
go with us ? ” 

“ Forever — ” faltered Mabel, and she looked the inquiry 
hisfstern face deterred her from making. 

“ There is no time to spend in answering questions — If 
you wish to fulfil your engagement to Mr. Melville — ” 

“ Wish ! — I would rather die ! ” Mabel said eagerly. 

“Very well, there is nothing more to be said;” and he 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


63 


looked at his watch. “ It is now after ten ; the carriage will 
be at the door before twelve. I have no time to answer 
questions,” he said, wearily, as she still hesitated ; and feel- 
ing that she had little time for preparation, Mabel hurried 
from the room. 

Mrs. Clifton had by this time recovered her usual 
haughty composure, and, relieved from the responsibility 
of preparation, that had seemed so overwhelming, decided 
to yield gracefully to the fate that obliged her to under- 
take a foreign tour without the grand outfit she had al- 
ways considered indispensable. ^ 

Besides, the peril threatening her dresses and other 
treasures, laces, jewels, etc., if packed without her super- 
vision, and the horrible thought that some might be left, 
restored her to sudden animation, and she followed Mabel 
from the room with more vivacity than she had shown 
since her preparations for her own bridal, nearly eighteen 
years before. 

Mabel’s step was not elastic, although her two greatest 
desires had been answ'ered as if by magic. 

She was going to Europe. And she was at liberty to 
free herself from her engagement. She was not so sure 
now that freedom was desirable, or that she had not gone 
too far to recede. Would she ever find any one so kind 
as Mr. Melville? Would it, after all, be pleasant to win 
love she could not return ? Her afternoon’s experience 
made her doubtful ; and her father’s manner had been so 
strange, it filled her mind with dread forebodings! Her 
tour might not be a triumphal one. The commencement 
was surely ominous — so sudden and inexplicable. 

It was a trial to part with Alice ; harder than she had 
dreamed. And if she tried to picture, the brilliant future 
that had once seemed so tempting, Laurence Melville’s 
parting words — “ May Heaven bless you, my darling, and - 


64 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


make you as kappy as you have tliis day made me/’ — chilled 
her blood Vvith a fear, lest they should prove a curse in- 
stead of a blessing. 

She sat motionless in the midst of the confusion and 
packing of trunks ; good and evil so inexplicably united, 
ambition and friendship, and fear and remorse, making 
such a pandemonium in her mind, that decision was im- 
possible. 

She would see her father, and ask him “why he wished 
her to marry Laurence Melville ? ” And his answer should 
decide her conduct. 

She hurried to the library ; it was empty. She made 
iuquii’ies of several of the servants; they had supposed 
Mr. Clifton still writing. While she hesitated what course 
to pursue, the coachman came with a message for Mrs. 
Clifton. The message decided her destiny, and yet it w^as 
simply “that Mr, Clifton would meet his wife at the 
depot.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


A X expression of intense relief crossed Mr. Clifton’s face 
as the door closed on his wife’s retreating figure, and 
hastily thrusting the papers into various little compart- 
ments of his desk, he locked them securely, and after a 
little hesitation drew writing-material toward him, and 
wrote in a clear, legible hand, but with great rapidity ; and 
without stopping to read what he had written, hurried from 
the room', and through a side entrance to the broad gravel 
walk leading to the stables. 

The moon streamed brightly on his path, and lighted 
each familiar object. But he did not pause to note the 
beauty around him, or think of how many months would 
come and go before he could return again. 

His favorite horse reared and plunged in the hands of 
the groom, who was leading him up and down the avenue. 
The spirited animal gave a neigh of recognition at sight 
of his master, and became suddenly docile. 

Mr. Clifton stroked his shining arched neck, but his hand 
trembled slightly. Pie was wondering if Selim was equal 
to the emergency ; and the ditches and fences in the way 
rose before him with appalling vividness. 

They were deep and high enough to startle a person of ^ 
firmer nerves than his own, strung as they were to the 
highest tension by the events of the last four hours. 

With hasty parting directions, he mounted, and turned 
slowly in the direction of the hills that shone mistily in 
the distance. 

His heart was heavy with the shadow of some impending 
calamity. Could it be death ? 

6* . K 


65 


66 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


He stopped, and drawing a letter from his pocket and 
tearing off the blank page, wrote rapidly in Italian, which 
language Mabel understood perfectly: — 

“ If I do not meet you at the depot, proceed without 

mie ; and wait one day at . I will meet you there if 

living. My bank-book will show you all my available 
means, until the rents are collected. May heaven bless 
you both.” 

He feared he had not been explicit enough ; but there 
was no time for further delay. They w ould be prepared 
in case of any accident to himself, otherwise they would 
never see the note. 

He beckoned the coachman to him, and said hurriedly: 

“ Deliver my message to Mrs. Cliflon as directed. But 
if I am not at the depot in time for the train, give her this 
note. In case I am left, I can ride on to the next station. 
Remember, do not give her the note until the last moment.” 

The man promised compliance ; and Mr. Clifton, with a 
hurried good-byej rode rapidly away. 

He had not glanced at his beautiful home, though it rose 
from amid the emerald shrubbery and misty fountains — 
like an enchanted palace, — its turrets glittering in the 
moonlight, and every beauty softened into a new grace. 

There w as a ride before him from wdiich he might never 
return, and he could not look on a scene that w'ould weaken 
his arm and dim his sight, — both must be steady. 

It w’^^s a sudden resolution that prompted the hazardous 
ride. It would not be safe to risk tlie possibility of Beatrice 
attempting to follow him, wdthout betraying her claim to 
his protection. 

He must see her, if possible, or at least write; and as 
there was no one he dared trust, to go in person to the 
Gipsy camp w'as his only alternative. 

He remembered a near w^ay to the spot where he had 


MABEL C L I F T O X. 


67 


seen Beatrice. The road was wild and dangerous even by 
daylight ; but death was preferable to disgrace, and the 
shorter road saved half the distance. 

lie stuck spurs into the sides of his horse, and away they 
dashed, cutting the air in their rapid flight, and leaving 
the town far behind. The forest was reached, and the 
darkness closed around them, and still they dashed on over 
fallen trees, and across deep gullies fhat looked black and 
yawning and impassable. 

But the noble horse never faltered, and Mr. Clifton 
stopped the panting animal as he reached the wood near 
the rocky ledge where he had hoped to dream of the past, 
and found an avenging Nemesis in the pleasant memories. 

He dismounted, and emerging into the soft moonlight, 
looked at his watch. The three miles had been traversed 
in a little over ten minutes. 

M’ith a sudden feeling of relief, he decided that he had 
ample time to return by the road. It was as if he had 
taken a new lease of life, and, more hopefully than he had 
thought it possible to be, he walked rapidly toward the ■ 
spot where he had left Beatrice. 

There was not time for the joy that thrilled his pulses to 
subside, as he stepped cautiously round . the foot of the cliff, 
and saw before him the object of his wishes, and the woman 
he had once loved more than wealth or ambition, and only 
less than pride. 

She was sleeping tranquilly on a rude couch fantasti- 
cally constructed of branches. It was cushioned with lux- 
urious skins of the leopard and tiger, and sheltered from 
the night-air and the glaring moonlight by a canopy of 
rich shawls. 

Far away over the meadow rose the smoke of the Gipsy 
camp, and shouts of merriment, mingled with snatches of 
rude melody, came softened by the distance. 


1 



08 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


Gillatina lay out in the broad moonlight, his rugged fea- 
tures showing in bold relief, and changed and wrinkled 
with age. 

Mr. Clifton drew the note from his pocket, and with 
his eyes still fixed on the sleeping figure of Galatina, 
drew cautiously near the couch. Once there, he was com- 
paratively safe, for the canopy shrouded him from ob- 
servation. 

And he forgot the trusty sentinel, whose weapons glit- 
tered in the moonlight, and whom it might be death to 
waken ; forgot that each moment was precious ; and only 
remembered that he was beside the woman he once loved, 
and who still had power to thrill his pulses with all the 
fervor of youth. 

He drew aside the heavily fringed drapery, and Beatrice 
was revealed, her faee pallid and sorrowful, and lines of 
care around her mouth. 

The rich color he admired so much in the olden days, 
and which had given her such a startling beauty, was all 
faded. A faint crimson tinged her lips ; but for that, and 
the gentle breathing, he would have fancied it a pulseless 
form before him, from whenee the spirit had fiown. 

His lost youth came back, and the fresh, pure love 
that brightened that glorious spring-time, as he gazed 
with rapture on the dear face before him ; and then the 
weary years flowed between, and the cares and ambitions 
of manhood 

“ Brushed from life’s flowers the dew ” 
of youth; — yet the love remained, even when the present,, 
with its sombre touch, blotted out the borrowed light, and 
he wakened to the chilling fact of his lost youth and his 
lost love, and the weakness and folly to which he had yielded. 

Beatrice stirred in her sleep, and a sudden smile parted 
her beautiful lips, and the olden beauty returned for a 
moment, as she murmured softly, — “Edward.” 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


69 


The smile faded, and her face was again calmly sorrow- 
ful ; and pinning the note to her sleeve, he took a long, 
lingering look, and stooped and pressed his lips to hers 
with a tenderness as mournful and solemn as when we 
take our last farewell of a loved friend whom death has 
parted from us. 

He paused again in the moonlight, and it only wanted 
fifteen minutes until the train was due; with a dreary 
calmness he decided to return by the shorter road. Had 
it not been for his madness in writing that note, it would 
not be necessary. 

What fiend had prompted. him to write those lines? — 
If it were only his wife who would read them, it would 
be of little consequence; she trusted him too implicitly to 
question his movements ; besides, he intended to tell her 
everything in the future, that was to atone for all his past 
indifference. But he owed Mabel no confidence, and could 
trust neither to her discretion nor filial tenderness. 

He remounted his horse and dashed again into the forest, 
as if life and death depended on his speed. 

Every impediment the darkness made doubly dangerous, 
had been safely passed, and there was but one more ob- 
stacle, and the open country lay before him tranquil and 
beautiful. 

“Surely, my good angel must have cared for me,” he 
thought, as he glanced behind him to the forest, black as 
Erebus. 

He pressed his horse onward to the precipice that lay 
between himself and safety — like a narrow line of dark- 
ness. There was a wild plunge — a scramble on the oppo- 
site bank, and a confused feeling as if heaven and earth 
were meeting, — and horse and rider, were lying among 
the rocks and tangled w^eeds that swallowed them, as the 
ocean does its victims. 


CHAPTER X. 


T he morning dawned bright and cloudless, and the 
breakfast-bell startled Laurence Melville from happy 
dreams in which his betrothed stood smilingly by, while an 
angel w ith a face singularly like Annie Raymond’s crowned 
him with a wreath of laurels. 

But his first thought was of Alice, wEose recovery was so 
necessary to all his hopes. * 

She w'as not in her room ; and scarcely daring to hope 
for a confirmation of his pleasant surmise, he threw open the 
d<5(3r of the breakfast-parlor, and she was sitting in her ac- 
customed place. She smiled a welcome, as he bent over her 
drooping figure, his face flushed and radiant with happiness. 

She w^as pale and - languid, but so glad to know that 
Mabel and himself were reconciled, and to listen to his plans 
for the future, that, deceived by her interest and anima- 
tion, he failed to notice thaUlier breakfast was untouched, 
and seeing her happy, was too willing to believe her well. 

“ You will not mind my leaving you, little sister,” he 
said, as the old clock on the stair chimed the hour of ten. 
He had drawm her easy-chair to the wfindow after, break- 
fast, and talking of his betrothed, the time had flown on 
golden wings. 

Alic^ raised her pretty, childish face from. his arm. 

“Of course not, Laurence; but I had forgotten that stu- 
pid ofiiee.” ^ 

“But it is not the office this mornings Alice,” laughed . 
her brother ; “I intend to reverse the old proverb whi-ch 
places business before pleasure.” Alice smiled brightly 

70 


MABEL CLIFTOX. 


71 


and said, “ she would also reverse the proverb, and finish 
a letter to Clarence,” (a ward of Mr. Melville’s, who was 
studying at one of the German universities.) 

Her brother brought her writing-materials to the cosy 
window-seat, and as he kissed her good-bye whispered mis- 
chievously : 

“ Remember, Alice, that Clarence is not to interfere or 
enter the lists with Mabel and myself ; you belong wholly 
to us ; ” and without marking the faint blush that tinged 
her cheek, he hurried away, whistling as he went, — rather 
an unusual proceeding, but he had, somehow, never felt so 
careless and light-hearted before. 

Impatience gave wings to his footsteps, and, half smiling 
at his impetuous eagerness, he entered the avenue leading 
to Mr. Clifton’s residence. 

The birds warbled their gayest carols as they flitted 
among the evergreens, and the sunshine mingled with 
the spray* of the fountains and glittered like myriads of 
diamonds ; but the house had, somehow, a chill, deserted 
look, and the gay flowers that bloomed on the terrace and 
parterre could not atone for the want of life that oppressed 
him with a sudden thrill of apprehension as he ascended 
the marble steps and rang the bell. 

The housekeeper came after some delay, instead of the 
usual servant — a maid of Miss Clifton’s. She looked tired 
and a little flurried as, in answer to his request “ to see Miss 
Clifton,” she told him “ that her young lady, in fact the 
whole family, left the night before in the express train, 
and did not expect to return for years.” 

Mr. Melville stared at her in blank dismay, unable, at 
first, to comprehend the extent of the evil that stunned him 
with its suddennegs. 

The housekeeper, frightened at his pallor, hurried, for a 
glass "of wine ; he had not entered the house, but was lean- 
ing against the doorway, the changeless pallor still on his 


72 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


face. He drank the wine mechanically, but refused the 
chair she offered; and not daring to speak the compassion 
her honest motherly countenance and tearful eyes betrayed, 
she slipped a note into his rigid hand. He glanced up in- 
quiringly. 

“ Miss Clifton left it for you,” she answered, glad of an 
opportunity to speak, and she could not help adding, — 

“I think Miss Clifton had no idea of going until last 
night. She seemed very much put out and in a maze like ; 
it was all Mr. Clifton’s doing, I am sure. Mr. Melville re- 
ceived her attempts at consolation wdth the same stony 
composure with which he had listened to her first intelli- 
gence, and without daring to trust himself to speak, he 
bowed silently and walked away. He seemed like a person 
under the influence of a horrible. dream, where the faculties 
are paralyzed. 

He did not go home, but wandered off among the thick 
shrubbery, and seated himself where the heavy •branches 
formed an impenetrable screen. 

It was long before he found courage to read the lines he 
felt would decide his destiny ; and then, ivith the note open 
before him, he would not allow himself to glance at the. con- 
tents, until he had conquered every hope, and was prepared 
for the worst. 

Mabel wrote : — 

“If sincere regret could remedy the past, the task of 
writing a farewell would not be so painful. 

“I accepted you wholly at my father’s command, and his 
sudden departure leaves me no" dther alternative than^ to 
release ypu from an engagement which, if fulfilled, would 
not add to your happiness or my own. 

“ ^S^ill you ask Alice not to hate me, and to believe that 
parting with her causes the only pang that I feel in leaving 
home, and that no friend in the future can fill her place in 
the heart of Mabel Clifton.” 


MABEL CLIFTOX. 73 

And tills was all — she had never loved him — and the 
dream was over. 

The paper fell from his nerveless fingers, and fluttered at 
his feet ; but the name Mabel Clifton, traced in delicate 
letters, rivetted his attention, — the beautiful name of the 
woman who had received his truest affection, and given him 
in return — not even a kindly thought. He had staked his 
all, and lost, and there was nothing left but endurance. 

Hours passed — the angelus from the village spire broke 
the stillness of the afternoon with its clear mellow peal, 
and he raised his pale face trustingly to the blue sky. The 
disappointment might crush, but it could not conquer him. 

Alone during the long hours he had struggled with his 
disappointment, and had risen above it. 

Mabel was dead to him, but the future was all before him. 

The one star fallen from his summer sky should not blind 
him to the many blessings of his life, though it left a dark- 
ness that no hope wmuld ever brighten. 

The sweet, bewildering dream was past, and would never 
thrill him again into unconsciousness df his duty ; but there 
was a calm happiness in his. reach, that looked very inviting 
after the fierce turmoil of bliss and despair that had 
marked his stormy, lone voyage. 

It was very like the hope that comes to us at times after 
some trial, when, weary of the struggle between hope and 
fear, we look forward yearningly to a quiet nook in the 
church-yard, and the green grave with the violets smiling 
from the turf, and the drooping trees moaning above the 
dreamless sleeper seems: a pleasant ending to the cares of 
life, and comforts us like the mother’s low lullaby does her 
sleeping child. 

He rose from his seat among the evergreens, and walked 
slowly toward the avenue leading to the gate, so absorbed 
in thought that he brushed against a lady who had risen 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


x74 

from a rustic seat at his approach. He would not have 
been aware of her presence even then, had she not uttered an 
exclamation. 

She was so beautiful, and appeared so unexpectedly, and 
altogether it was so strange to meet any one in that quiet 
spot, that he stopped in mute surprise. 

Her face was pale, and the sad expression was somehow 
at variance with her ebon hair and flashing animated 
features. 

She looked at him with a haughty, halflstartled air, and 
recovering his self-possession, he uttered a hasty apology, 
and was about to pass on, when she made a gesture as if 
she would speak .to him. He awaited her commands with 
surprise and curiosft^ as her agitation increased. Her 
voice was quite silvery*5/and although she hesitated as if to 
speak was a painful effort, the words were commonplace 
enough. 

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Clifton’s family?” 

Nothing she could have said Avould have so startled Mr, 
^Melville, — a flush rose to his cheeks, and his agitation 
almost equalled her own, as he stammered in confusion, — 

“Very intimately — that is, I was. They are not at 
home now, however.” 

“Yes, I know,” she interrupted, and without noticing 
Ids embarrassment. “ But I have a favor to ask of you. 
I am a stranger, and to-morrow will leave this place for- 
ever. I have a reason I cannot explain for wishing to go 
over the house. Could you gain me admission ? ” 

She approached him in her eageTmess, and looked in his 
flice with a frightened anxiety, as if her life depended on his 
answer. 

It was so singular a request that he would have smiled’ 
at its absurdity, had her manner been less earnest. 

She seemed to take his silence as a denial, and her 


V. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


75 

mournful tone, and the tears in her beautiful eyes, melted 
his heart completely. 

“ Oh, you will not refuse me so small a request, — if you 
knew all, you could not. I have come so far, and in 
vain, — do not refuse me! 

A stoic could not have resisted the pathos in her tone 
and tearful face, and Laurence Melville, whose chivalric 
devotion to women was a part of his nature, yielded at 
once, although he half feared he was dealing with a 
lunatic. 

■ She did not thank him in words, but her look spoke 
volumes. 

She refused his proffered arm, and they w^alked silently 
toward the house, — both absorbed in thought; — her face 
was shrouded by her veil, but he noticed with admiration 
her elegant figure, and the graceful folds of her dark 
cloth travelling dress and mantle. 

She was evidently a lady, and he decided that she was 
probably a relative of the family, and that her singularity 
was the effect of her foreign habits; — to suppose her an 
American was impossible. 

The housekeeper again answered the bell, and her look 
of surprise was lost in delight at the advent of a visitor, 
to whom she could do the honors in the absdhce of the 
family. 

She had not listened to Mr. Melville’s rather imagi- 
native and not very lucid introduction, and rapidly drew 
her own conclusions, which were as follows : — 

“ That the foreign lardy coming unexpectedly, and Mr. 
and Mrs. Clifton absent, must be treated with the most 
distinguished courtesy;” accordingly, she escorted her to the 
parlor with the most obsequious politeness, with numerous 
apologies for the disorder, and regrets that the family were 
not there to welcome her, and only ended her harangue to 
ring for servants and order a room prepared immediately. 


76 


MABEL CLIFTOX. 


Our ci-devant Gipsy, whom the reader has probably re- 
cognized, now entered a faint protest. Her color came and 
went, and her voice was almost inaudible from agitation, 
and she looked imploringly at Mr. Melville, who attempted 
to explain “ that she would, perhaps, prefer returning to 
the hotel, as she only intended staying over night.” 

But the worthy housekeeper was aghast at the supposi- 
tion, and protested “ she would never dare look Mr. Clifton 
in the face, after allowing a visitor to stay at the hotel,” 
and with a reproachful glance at Mr. Melville, she left the 
room on hospitable thoughts intent. 

Mr. Melville’s dilemma was at its height ; and he was 
taking a “penitential survey” of his temerity in intro- 
ducing a stranger, whose very request was suspicious, when 
the unconscious object of his thoughts came close to his 
side. 

“ I think I will stay over-night here,” she said eagerly. 
“ It will do no harm, and will be a 'great pleasure.” She 
paused, as if to await his answer ; and he was again a vic- 
tim to her dark, imploring eyes, while mentally execrating 
his weakness. And she again thanked him, not with her 
eyes only, for she held out her beautiful hand, saying 
softly, — 

“ I have* not known many friends, and I found but one 
faithful ; but when I am tempted to think hardly of the 
w’orld, I will remember your kindness, and trust to a 
stranger.^» I do not know your name, but I will never for- 
get you ; and may the blessed Virgin bless you always.” 

She stopped suddenly, and pressed her lips to his hand, 
and then turned to the wundow. 

With hesitating steps he left the hoi^se, and looking back, 
he caught a last glimpse of her beautiful face and elegant 
figure ; and she waved her hand in farewell. 

He never saw her again in all the future, and the 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


77 


mystery with which he invested her was a mystery to which 
time gave him no clue. 

At the gate he met a swarthy elderly man, whose air 
betrayed him to be a foreigner. 

A suspicion flashed across Mr. Melville’s mind, of which 
he was directly ashamed, that this man was an accomplice 
of the siren who had so enchanted him ; and that it was 
a cunningly arranged plan to rob. 

But the face before him was so honest, that he decided 
it could be trusted ; and the frank voice dispelled all his 
doubts. 

“ He was looking for his mistress,” he explained. “ Had 
his Excellency seen a lady walking in the grounds ? ” 

Mr. Melville directed him to the house, and went on to 
his quiet home, where he struggled to learn the difficult 
lesson that must come to us all, before we can know con- 
tentment and real peace, namely that, — 

“Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end, or way, 

But to live, that each to-morrow 
Finds us further than to-day.” 


Although the knowledge that Annie Raymond loved 
him, and her kind gentleness, came gratefully as a vision 
of pleasant shores to the weary mariner, yet it was long 
before it brought repose to his heart ; and when winter had 
succeeded autumn, and spring awakened the flowers, and 
brought again the bird*i, lie stood with Annie Raymond 
under the vine-shaded portico, and asked her to be his 
wife, there was a shadow on his heart that the frank face 
raised so trustingly could not dispel. 

She was dear to him, and she would each day become 
dearer and more precious ; and her presence would bring 


78 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


light tind gladness to his quiet home, and cheer Alice, who 
was sad and drooping; he felt he ought to be happy, and 
yet he was not. He had turned his face from Annie, and 
almost forgotten her presence, but he started as she put 
her little hand shyly into his, and tried to look cheerful. 
Her rosy lips were smiling, but there w^ere tears in her 
brown eyes as she raised them suddenly and looked at him 
with a wistful, loving expression, as if she understood his 
trouble and longed to comfort him. Her unselfish love 
added another link to his affection, and there were no 
shadows in the past that would be so dark to him as the 
future without her smiles and love. 


CHAPTEE XL 


B EATEICE almost felt repaid for the long, tiresome 
years of waiting, as she wandered from room to room, 
thinking how lately the eyes she loved so well had sur- 
veyed the same objects. 

He was gone ; but every picture gave evidence of his 
taste, and his presence seemed to linger and charm the 
very air wdth thrilling memories of the olden time. 

For eighteen years she had lived but for one object — to 
see him again. At first, in the peaceful seclusion of her 
cottage home, she studied and read with a fond ambition 
to become learned for his sake ; knowing as little of the 
busy world "ebbing and flowing around her, as did the in- 
nocent, childlike sisters who had petted and fondled her 
from childhood. But as the years rolled on, there were 
changes even in her monotonous life. The sisters were, 
some of them, removed to another convent, and others 
passed tranquilly to that bourne from whence no traveller 
returns. The beautiful cypress wood, so sacred to the 
memory of her recreant lover, was swept away to make 
room for stately dwellings, wFose massive gray walls 
frowmed darkly on her pretty cottage. Then, \veary of 
books, and weary of suspense, she decided to go forth into 
the wide world, and ndver return to her home until the 
suspense that was becoming each day harder to endure 
w^as ended. 

On a beautiful October morning, thousands of miles 
from her native land, her w^aiting ended ; and she knew 
that the Edward Clifton, wdiose smiles had once been the 

79 


80 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


sunsliine of her life, to whom she had plighted her vows, 
was false. 

But there was no bitterness in her heart now; the storm 
of sorrow had passed ; and though hope was at an end, 
there was peace and rest at last. 

She wakened that morning — the first that had dawmed 
on her trouble — from a thrilling dream of the beautiful 
long ago, when Edward Clifton loved her ; and before the 
remembrance of his desertion could break in upon her 
happiness, her eye fell on the note pinned to her sleeve; she 
opened it and read with quickening pulses : — 

“ Mia Beatrice : — I saw you this afternoon, lovely 
as when we knelt together in Borne eighteen years ago, 
and I loved you as well. But, my Beatrice, other and more 
solemn vows have been sanctioned since then. 

“My honor — my life — is in your hands. 

“ If you bring forward our marriage, (which was not 
legal,) you disgrace the woman who for eighteen years has 
borne my name — disgrace my child, and ruin me. 

“You who so dearly love the father and mother you 
cannot even remember, will pity me, when I tell you that 
my mother’s broken heart would have followed me like 
a curse through life, and my dead father’s name been a by- 
word and reproach, had I been true to you. 

“My destiny is in your hands,- — for, hear me swear 
most solemnly, I will never live to be disgraced! 

“You can destroy me for this world, and for eternity. 
But I cannot believe you would injure me ; and for the 
sake of the love we once felt, let me ask you to return to 
your home, and be happy. In one year, if my life is spared, 
I will see you — wait for me there. Edward.” 

Strange as it may seem, the few hurried, incoherent lines 
soothed her almost as if it had been his real presence. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


81 


He had been beside her, loved her still, and he had not 
deserted her wilfully. That was the greatest comfort, and 
although she wept, her heart was softened. 

Her love and reverence for her parents was one of the 
dearest impulses of her nature ; and she could pity Edward, 
who had sacrificed happiness and love to save his father’s 
name from disgrace and his mother from a broken heart. 
She sorrowed still, but it was a quiet sorrow that gave her 
new dignity. 

When Galatina joined her, she told him all the events 
of the day and night that ended the wanderings of years, 
and then she said kindly, “We will return to dear Italy, 
never to leave it again ; and you shall have the repose you 
so much need, my good, faithful friend.” 

Galatina looked inquiringly into her face, and she smiled 
through her gathering tears, as she answered “ that she 
would be happy, he need not fear.” 

Galatina was not so confident ; but he was delighted at 
the prospect of returning to their quiet cottage. He had 
soon tired of his roaming life, and it was a daily trial to 
see his beloved mistress deprived of her usual comforts. 

The arrangements for their departure were soon made, 
and they left forever the Gipsy camp. 

Beatrice w^andered through the beautiful rooms that 
should have been her own, in a kind of dream that was 
half bliss and half agony ; but when she was alone in her 
room, away from the prying eyes of officious servants, she 
gave herself up to the passionate love and despair and 
regret swelling at her heart, as she knelt beside the low 
window-seat, and looked out on the beautiful grounds shim- 
mering in the soft moonlight, thinking how often Mr. 
Clifton sat in the self-same spot, and smiled on the beauty 
she now beheld, and of the time when she should see him 
again ; was there no vision of the tangled ravine, where 

F 


82 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


he was lying with his white face upturned to the cloud- 
less sky, when in a peaceful dream she had forgotten her 
cares and troubles. 

Love is powerless to shield beloved ones, and it is seldom 
that a warning, or even a shiver or shrinking of the frame, 
tells us of the danger threatening one we would give our 
life to save. 

Beatrice kept her vigils through the long night, and the 
morning dawned clear and beautiful ; but she could not 
hail its coming, or rejoice in its loveliness, for she must 
leave the only spot on earth filled with memories that 
could throw some bliss on the darkness of her life. 

Alice turned her face from the brightness, and wept in 
utter desolation of spirit for the friend she had lost; and 
Mabel rode through the wakening streets of a strange city, 
with a deadly fear chilling her veins, and her beautiful 
face sharpened with the shadow of coining trials. 


CHAPTER XIL 


J jT'RS. CLIFTON and Mabel, who had several days be- 
J- fore been at the very pinnacle of worldly prosperity 
and happiness, were now alone and friendless in a strange city. 

The day was mild and lovely, and the sunshine lighted 
up the busy streets, and shone brightly in dusky nooks 
and cheerless corners ; but there was one darkened room 
to which it brought no comfort. 

Mrs. Clifton was lying on the bed weeping and moaning 
in her despair; but Mabel, prouder and colder than ever, 
sat upright, her cheek bloodless and her hands tightly 
clasped. 

At last she turned sternly toward her mother. 

“ Mamma, it is useless to talk of returning home. It 
will only be to publish our disgrace. We are deserted and 
penniless. Three thousand dollars, but a mere pittance, is 
the extent of our means. To remain here is impossible. 
We will go West at once, and change our names. Ho 
you hear, mamma?” 

Mrs. Clifton started up nervously. 

“ O Mabel ! and if your father — ” 

Mabel rose like a beautiful fiend, and stood before her. 

“ I will not hear that name again. He has cancelled all 
claim to our affection ■ and respect, in deserting us. I 
would rather die than see him again. Oh ! it is too hor- 
rible to think of; ” and she covered her face and moaned 
despairingly. 

After a v.hile she grew more composed, and taking a 
chair, sat down by her mother’s side. 


83 


84 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


“ I can understand why my marriage with Laurence 
Melville was so desirable. It is too late now to think of 
it ! she said coldly, as a gleam of hope lighted Mrs. 
Clifton’s, face. 

“ Nothing would induce me to return home, where our dis- 
grace is the theme of every tongue.” 

“Mabel, I will not believe your father has deserted us. 
O Mabel! listen to me; let us return and inquire!” 

Mabel’s very lips grew white with passion, and she brought 
a fragment of a note from her secretaire. 

It was note Mr. Clifton left in case he did not reach 
the depot in time. 

The coachman thrust it into the window as the train was 
about to start ; and Mrs. Clifton, thinking it was a bill, 
had thrown it carelessly into the luncheon-basket, and for- 
gotten having received it until in the midst of her distress 
at Mr, Clifton’s inexplicable absence. The note was remem- 
bered with a sudden thrill of hope, and search made for it. 

It was so greased and discolored, that only a few words 
were legible, and those capable of the most dreadful con- 
struction ; but Mrs. Clifton, although heart-broken at her 
husband’^ absence, and unable to combat Mabel’s opinions 
with any show of reason, persisted in thinking it some cruel 
mistake that a little time and patience would rectify. 

Mabel had but one opinion after reading the note; but 
her mother’s prayers and entreaties induced her to remain 
a few days longer than she first intended. 

Mrs. Clifton’s was a weak nat^jre, and she liad few affec- 
tions. Haughty and indolent,^udrborue calmly along the 
current of prosperity, there had been nothing to call into 
play her finer impulses. But her love for her husband now 
rose superior to every doubt and trial ; she could feel no 
anger, she only longed to see and forgive him. 

“He may repent of his desertion,” she said with falter- 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


85 


ing lips, ^Yllen pleading with Mabel to return, or at least 
wait until they knew positively the truth of their suspicions ; 
but Mabel’s passionate anger so frightened her, that she 
yielded passively to her decision, and answered her most 
bitter denunciations only with tears. 

Mabel could not but pity her mother, even when she 
scorned the weakness that could stoop to forgive such a 
WTong. She thought bitterly that she would die rather 
than accept a favor from her father, or descend to the 
lowest servitude sooner than forgive him ; and she said 
proudly : 

“ I will take the money because it is yours, mamma, but 
not the rents, if we starve.” It was no use to resist her 
will, and Mrs. Clifton found it impossible to even put into 
execution a scheme by which Mr. Clifton might find them 
in case he returned. 

Mabel never relaxed her jealous watchfulness, and Mrs. 
Clifton could not in her sorrow rise above the habits of a 
life-time, and with a despair that might have melted a 
heart of stone, yielded her last hope of a reunion with her 
husband, and departed with Mabel for the Far West. 

Mabel was apparently as unmoved by her grief as she 
W’as inflexible in her resolve, and her cold face gave no 
sign of emotion, though her feelings, if less tender, were 
not the more enviable. 

Love she had cast from her, and disgrace and poverty 
left no room for ambition. Pride was the only principle 
left ; no one should know she suffered, and her father should 
never again look upon the faces of the wife and daughter 
he bad so injured, or know their fate. 

She had looked on the map and selected a destination — 
not with a thought of future comfort ; her only aim was to 
live where there w^ould be no risk of meeting any person 
whom she had formerly knowm. ^ 

8 


8G 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


Amid the chaos of wounded pride and anger and de- 
spair, this thought was alone distinct. 

Their journey was a melancholy one ; Mrs. Clifton be- 
came apparently resigned to her fate, after the first par- 
oxysm of grief ; but her strength failed hourly, and the 
dreary calmness of her face was more disheartening than 
the wildest demonstrations of sorrow ; and Mabel, sitting 
listlessly by her side, thought sadly of the dreary present 
and her blighted future. 

It was near the close of a dull, cloudy afternoon, when 
they neared the village where their journey was to end. 

The wind howled fiercely through the leafless branches 
of the trees, and Mabel’s heart sunk at every mile of their 
progress. 

“Such a dreary, uninteresting country.” Mrs. Clifton 
v/as asleep ; it would have been some relief to have talked 
with her ; there was no other passenger, nothing to disturb 
the monotony, as the coach dragged lazily on. 

At last the spires of the village became visible through 
the rain that was now falling mistily, and they soon rattled 
along the rough street. 

Mrs. Clifton roused and looked out of the window, as the 
coach stopped before a dismal little inn. 

A low porch with stiff posts extended along the front, 
and the trees bordering the pavement stretched out their 
naked branches and seemed to shriek a dismal warning. 

Mrs. Clifton sank back in dismay, and Mabel clasped 
her hands in utter desolation. 

Even pride deserted her, and all the probable conse- 
quences of her headstrong folly rushed upon her with ap- 
palling force for one moment, she felt it would have been 
better to endure the comments and derision of persons she 
had scorned to notice, or even the pity of her acquaintances, 
than to stop in the desolate town where her mother’s health 
would oblige her to remain for months, perhaps.- 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


87 


With a passionate longing for protection, and an earnest, 
appealing look on her white, sorrowful face, she leaned 
forward, as if to say : “Will no one pity or help me?” and 
she met a firm, respectful gaze that thrilled her with its 
ready sympathy, and that seemed to recall her waning 
fortitude. 

A group of the villagers were sitting on the porch, rough, 
uncouth-looking men, with one exception — a young man 
leaning carelessly against a post. He was looking to- 
ward the coach, as were all the rest of the group ; but he 
seemed hesitating between a desire to befriend the fright- 
ened travellers and a fear of being officious; .but as the 
landlord bustled forward to assist them to alight, he stepped 
before him and said a few w^ords in an eager tone, to which 
that worthy assented after some hesitation. 

Fortunately, Mrs. Clifton and Mabel were too much 
occupied with their own thoughts and fears, to note par- 
ticularly what was passing around them, for the landlord 
laughed loudly, and said with a rough attempt at badinage, 
“I see how it is — but I don’t wonder, she is as pretty a 
lady as I ever see, if she does look sickly.” 

The young man blushed slightly, and made a warning 
gesture as he advanced to the side of the .coach. 

Mrs. Clifton looked up eagerly at his approach, and 
Mabel, with a mixture of relief and hauteur on her face, 
leaned back on the cushions. 

He was tall and graceful, and evidently a gentleman, 
though surrounded by such incongruous companions. 

If his manner lacked the ease and polish of an accom- 
plished courtier, tlife cheery tones of his voice, and the 
kindly expression of his handsome face, inspired confidence, 
as he said, raising his hat respectfully, — 

“Ladies, there are no accommodations here that will make 
you at all comfortable, but if you will accept of my hospi- 
tality, I shall feel myself highly honored.” 




88 


• MABEL CLIFTON. 


Mrs. Clifton looked anxiously at Mabel, who colored 
painfully between natural hesitation and a desire to accept 
the stranger’s kind offer, but he again spoke. 

“It is a liberty to make such a request of you, but 
custom has made it common with us and he repeated 
his offer with so much sincerity, that Mrs. Clifton smiled 
gratefully and said, with her most cordial manner, — 

“ It is a great kindness on your part, and we appreciate 
it to the fullest extent.” She paused and looked at Mabel, 
and encouraged by her assenting smile, accepted his in- 
vitation with graceful courtesy. 

The stranger gave some hasty directions to the driver, 
and the coach moved on. Mabel glanced with a shudder 
at the dreary inn, and covering her face wuth her veil, 
thought despairingly : “ Oh, what will become of us ! ” 
Mrs. Clifton’s delight at escaping the doleful accommo- 
dations of the hotel, and her fatigue, occupied her fully 
until they reached their destination. 


CHAPTER XIIL 



iHE coach stopped at last, and they looked out through 


-L the mist and the gathering twilight on a sylvan 
scene, that even the weather could not make dismal. 

The smooth lawn, and the clean pebbled walks, and 
graceful arbors, and trellised summer-houses contrasted 
with the exquisitely grouped evergreens and pretty Gothic 
house, and a hill, crowned with pine and picturesque rocks, 
moss-grown and bright with clusters of laurel, made the 
background of the beautiful picture. 

It was like a vision' of fairy-land, the union of elegance 
and taste found so unexpectedly, and so contrasted with the 
dingy, weather-stained village through which they had 
passed. 

Mrs. Clifton uttered an exclamation of delight, and a flush 
of pleasure rose to Mabel’s cheek, and when their hand- 
some host came forward to assist them in alighting, she 
gave him a smile so beaming and thankful, that his heart 
was completely won. 

A bright fire burned in the pretty little panor, and the 
cheerful glow penetrated every nook and corner. 

There was a piano, and well-selected engravings, and 
every article was so perfect in its kind, so new and cheery- 
looking, and in such exquisite taste, that it seemed to them, 
charming beyond description. None of the grandeur of 
their beautiful home had ever been so captivating. 

Mrs. Clifton had for so many days been deprived of 
her usual comforts, that in the delight of the restored 
8 * 89 


90 


MABEL CLIFTO^f. 


pleasure, slie almost forgot her sorrow, and was roused to 
iinuslial animation. 

Mr. Seldon, their host, was unremitting in his attentions, 
and his prim, sedate housekeeper received them as cordially 
as if they were expected guests. - Mrs. Clifton thought 
the supper more delightful than any she had ever eaten, 
and the fragrant coffee, and delicate waffles and chicken., 
would have tempted an anchorite. 

Mabel was haughtily surprised at the housekeeper’s te- 
merity in taking the head of the table, but there was a 
modest dignity in her manner, mingled with such an ear- 
nest desire for their comfort, and she was so respectful, 
even while evidently considering herself their equal, that 
Mabel’s coldness thawed rapidly, and she delighted the 
aged spinster with her smiles, and gained her enthusiastic 
admiration. 

k.Ir. Seldon was apparently unconscious of Mabel’s beauty, 
and his attention to Mrs. Clifton so absorbing, that Mabel 
decided that, to bring him to a proper sense of her merits, 
would be a laudable effort. 

When they returned to the parlor, Mr. Seldon drew the 
sofa near the fire and arranged the pillows, and Mrs. Clif- 
ton, weak and languid, leaned back with a delicious feeling 
of ease and rest. She was rapturous in her praises of Mr. 
Seldon ’s paradise, as she laughingly termed it. 

He laughed nervously, and glanced at Mabel, wfflo was 
sitting apart, her haughty face somewhat softened, and a 
rich color tinging her cheek, and said with some embarrass- 
ment : “ I could imagine it a jDaradise to-night, although 
it has never seemed one before. It has always wanted one 
blessing — woman’s smiles.” 

Mabel raised her eyes slowly to his face with a thrilling 
glance, and then looked steadily in the fire, — and he turned 
and walked to the window. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


91 


He had in that instant met his fate ! 

When he returned and seated himself by Mrs. Clifton’s 
side, his face was flushed and eager, and his eyes wandered 
continually toward Mabel, who preserved a rigid silence, 
but who was so beautiful in that softened light, that it was 
no wonder Mr. Seldon was bound as by a spell. 

He was a passionate admirer of beauty, and Mabel was 
so rare and striking, that he was prepared to worship her as 
a divinity. 

The most of his life had been spent in the West, in the 
turmoil and strife of a struggle for wealth, — and he 
had conquered, inasmuch as he was now independent of 
the world, and had a sufficient income to enable him to 
enjoy, to a limited extent, the comforts and even luxuries 
of life. 

His friends often laughingly told him “ he only needed 
a wife,” and he was very much of their opinion. But 
there was no one in the village who reached his standard 
of excellence, though he was quite reasonable in his expec- 
tations. “ He did not care for a brilliant woman, he was 
not brilliant himself. Too much beauty was not desirable, 
much as he admired beauty. The lady he married must 
be domestic and sensible, with taste to appreciate and love 
her home and the elegancies he could give her, without am- 
bition to long for more.’*’ 

This was the picture he had drawn of the future Mrs. 
Seldon. He fully realized that such a woman alone copld 
make him happy. But, like many a wiser man, he was 
lured by a pair of bright eyes, and was willing to risk hap- 
piness, even life itself, to win them. 

Hays passed, so dark, rainy, and tempestuous, that it was 
impossible to stir out-of-doors, but within all was light, 
warmth, and cheerfulness to him ; for Mabel (Miss Cam- 


92 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


den she called herself) was the presiding genius, and to sit 
and watch her, as if she had been a beautiful picture, his 
sole absorbing occupation. 

She scarcely spoke to him, and rarely smiled, but he was 
too deliriously happy in the wild passion that filled his 
heart, to think beyond the present, that her presence made 
an Elysium. 

Hour after hour she would sit, her eyes bent on a book, 
or looking dreamily into the fire, — she never indulged in 
those feminine occupations of which most women are so 
fond, — apparently unconscious of his scrutiny, but se- 
cretly delighting in her power and by a glance or tone 
tightening the links that bound him to her ; — it '^^as the 
only relief from the dreadful monotony of her life, — of 
the end she would not think, — her whole proud soul was 
in revolt at the change in her destiny, and in the future 
slie dared not contemplate. Mrs. Clifton grew weaker daily, 
and scarcely stirred from the s«fa. She was not cheerful 
after the first night of her arrival, but she always listened 
with pleased attention, as Mr. Seldon read or talked to her ; 
she suflered no pain, and she liked the cosy pleasant room, 
and Mr. Seldon’s cheerful voice, and the days passed not 
unhappily. 

It was only at night she realized the sorrow that had 
fallen upon her hitherto pleasant life. It was seldom she 
could sleep, and tossing on her restless pillow, she would 
grieve for the husband she scarcely hoped to see again. 

One morning, after an unusually good night, she w^as 
wakened by the sun streaming brightly in at the window ; 
she felt stronger and better, and more resigned to her fate; 
if she could forget the past, she ^vould be almost happy. 
She was thinking thus, when Mabel came in from the ad- 
joining room. 

“ Mamma,” she said wearily, “ I must go out this morn- 
ing, and hunt boarding. ” 


. I 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


93 


Poor Mrs. Clifton had never thought of this new trouble, 
and she was too weak and unhappy to see thq,t MabeFs pro- 
position was not only reasonable, but an imperative neces- 
sity. . 

She clasped her hands in an agony of entreaty, as she 
said piteously : 

“ Mabel, you don’t certainly think of leaving here — it 
would kill me ! ” 

Her passionate w^eeping put an end to argument ; and 
Mabel, gloomy and disheartened, returned to her own room, 
almost wild with uncertainty as to the course she must 
pursue. 

There was but one way out of her difficulties, but if she 
availed herself of it, there was an end to hope in the 
future ; she could never regain the position she had lost 
until years had been passed in the monotony of the miser- 
able village. She turned with a shudder from the picture. 
But the other alternative was more terrible. In her mother’s 
present health, a removal was impossible, and she thought 
despairingly of dreary lodgings and a scanty purse. 

The breakfast-bell found her still undecided. To remain 
as guests in Mr. Seldon’s house was impossible ; but where 
should they go ? — she loathed the thought of contact with 
the villagers. 

There was but one course, and though her brow darkened, 
there w’as a flutter at her heart which seemed to argue that 
the alternative was not wholly unpleasant. 

Spite of her pride and coldness, there was in Mr. Seldoii’s 
love a fascination she could scarcely resist. 

She had scorned Laurence Melville, who was so far his 
superior in education and talents and elegance of manner, 
that her heart sank at the contrast, but she did not scorn 
Mr. Seldon. 

All her pride of birth must be laid aside; and then she 


r 

94 MABELCLIFTON. 

thought with bitterness that she had no right to be proud. 
Her name was disgraced. She ought to be grateful to any- 
one who would give her a name she need not blush to own. 

This view of the case was so humiliating, that she did 
not sigh over the sacrifice she decided to make. 

Mrs. Clifton was too much overcome at the prospect of 
leaving this last refuge, to accompany her to breakfast ; 
and she descended the stairs with a feeling of relief to which 
she had long been a stranger. 

The breakfast-parlor was a picture of comfort, and the 
one handsome window radiant with sunshine and the 
flowers that filled the vases. 

Mr. Seldon turned at her entrance, and she smiled and 
extended her hand. 

She had never been so cordial before, and even her cold 
heart gave a little thrill of pleasure at the glance he gave 
her, as he held her hand for an instant, and his very lips 
grew -white with emotion. 

His was the kind of love she had dreamed of in her 
visions of conquest, and the home he could offer, in con- 
trast with her changed lot, more than she had a right to 
expect ; and she exerted hers^ to be entertaining,, almost 
as much because she felt a sp^es of gratitude, as with a 
view of forwarding her interests. To say Mr. Seldon -was 
charmed, would but feebly express his state of enthral- 
ment. There was no rashness he would not have been 
guilty of. 

Mabel’s heart beat a little quicker as he joined her in 
the parlor. They were alone for the first time. He seemed 
nervous and ill at ease, and embarrassed by the silence. 
Maberl seated, herself at the piano and ran her fingers 
lightly over the keys. 

The music rose and fell in floods of melody, and Mr. 
Seldon, who had at first listened with breathless eagerness, 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


95 


covered his face with his hands, as if the beauty and 
harmony were more than he could bear. 

- She changed to a low, wild melody fromLurley, and the 
strains grew softer until they ceased altogether. As she 
turned slowly as if to leave the instrument, Mr. Seldon 
raised his face with a half sigh, and knelt at her feet, and 
poured forth his love in a torrent of words that almost 
terrified her with their earnestness. 

She had not dreamed of the impulsive nature hidden 
under that calm exterior, and trembled at the storm she 
had aroused. 

Her agitation almost equalled his own, as, forgetting 
she had schemed for this very result, she objected, — that 
she was a stranger, — that he knew nothing of her past 
life, — that their acquaintance was too short, etc. 

He did not listen to her words. “ He cared for nothing 
if she would only be his wife, — he would die at her feet 
if she did not listen to his suit.” 

His eyes glowed, and the veins in his temples were 
swollen like cords, as he grasped her hands in the earnest- 
ness of his appeal. 

She had met her equal, and she could not have refused 
him, even had she so decided in her morning conflict. She 
forgot every scruple in the fascination of the moment, and 
leaning forward, whispered, as if with an uncontrollable im- 
pulse, “ I love you, — I will be your wife,” and wrenching 
her hands from his grasp, l(^ft the room. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


ABEL’S decision in regard to leaving Mr. Seldon’a 



LtJL house roused Mrs. Clifton to the exertion of thinking 
and acting for herself, something she had not done before 
in the whole course of her life. She had obeyed' implicitly 
any one to whom it was natural she should owe obedience, 
and yielded against her inclinations to a will stronger than 
her own, as in the case of Mabel. 

.She had found herself unable to contend successfully 
against the journey West, although she had an inward 
conviction that they were rushing to their destruction. 

But she felt now the imperative necessity of a decisive 
step, — there was no telling what Mabel in her headstrong 
folly would do next, and like a gleam of hope or sudden 
inspiration came the thought of addressing her husband’s 
lawyer. 

She wrote in the greatest trepidation, informing him of 
Mr, Clifton’s failure to meet them, and Mabel’s change of 
name, and journey to the out-of-the-way place where they 
were then stopping, and enclosed the note found in the 
luncheon-basket. 

When the letter was finished, sealed, and directed, her 
satisfaction knew no bounds, and she came very near for- 
getting, in her delight, that Mabel’s return might prevent 
its reaching its destination. 

She called the maid who w^as cleaning Mabel’s room, 
(Ml'. Seldon only kept two servants,) and dispatched her 
to the office, — so frightened at the thought of failure, that 
she could scarcely give the order'^ 


96 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


97 


Betty’s return with the welcome intelligence that “ the 
letter was just in time,” relieved her suspense. 

She forgot the reduced state of their finances, and re- 
w^arded her messenger in a style befitting her former 
state, and ruinous to her present income as she thought with a 
sigh a little after. 

The excitement over, she felt worse than usual, and 
wms composing herself to sleep, when Mabel opened the 
door hastily and laid her hand on her shoulder to awaken 
her. — “Mamma, we need not leave Mr. Seldon’s house.” 

Mrs. Clifton opened her eyes languidly and surveyed 
with surprise her daughter’s flushed cheeks and strange, 
perturbed manner, but her very heart stood still at the words, 

“And I have promised to marry him,” 

Mrs. Clifton forgot her fear of Mabel’s anger, their al- 
tered circumstances, everything, except that Mabel, with 
her beauty and accomplishments, — the last Clifton, — 
would marry a plain AYestern man, uneducated and un- 
known outside of the little town where he lived; and, more 
ignominious than all, to rate herself so lightly that she had 
scarcely waited to b.e wmoed. 

There was majesty as well as dignity in her manner, as 
she drew herself up haughtily. “ I thought our degradation 
was complete, but it seems this disgrace is to be added to 
our other calamities; — you need not frown, for it will be 
disgraceful. 

“ And why disgraceful ? said Mabel angrily. 

“Mr. Seldon does not claim any merit from his ancestors, 
his father may have been a blacksmith, for aught I know 
to the contrary;” (she winced inwardly at the thought.) ' 

“ But I do not fear that he will disgrace his name, as my 
father,” — she said the words with scornful emphasis — 
“ has the name of Clifton, that has been untarnished for 
nearly three centuries.” 

9 


G 


98 


MABEL C L 1 F T O X. 


Mrs. Clifton’s dignity fell before this home- thrust, and 
her momentary courage deserted her. She tried to speak in 
her husband’s defence, but her voice was choked with sobs, 
and she buried her face in the pillows of her couch. 

Mabel left the room in a towering passion. “ She would 
marry Mr. Seldon now in spite of everything. They were 
a pretty family to talk of disgrace ! ” 

She had felt all her mother urged during the time she 
had been revolving in her mind this very step, but she was 
as angry as if the objections had never occurred to her. 

Her pride was not that firm quality that, even in its fail- 
ings, leans to virtue’s side — that sometimes answer its pos- 
sessor instead of high moral principles. It was a pride 
born of her birth and position ; and now that she was 
fallen from her high estate, she denounced it utterly and 
became democratic in the extreme. 

She had once scorned Annie Raymond because she taught 
school ; yet, to avoid the evils of poverty, she was about to 
marry a man whom, a week before, she had not known ; 
and she deliberately led him on to a declaration of the 
passion she had been skilfully fostering day by day, and 
excused her conduct with the plea, that she was too proud 
to return to her home and endure the disgrace of her 
father’s desertion. 

She was not the first person mistaking ill-temper and 
obstinacy for pride. 

In the midst of her anger and passionate determination 
to marry Mr. Seldon, she heard her mother’s voice calling 
feebly, “Mabel.” She did not answer until the name was 
repeated ; and when at last she went, her face was dark and 
lowering. 

Her mother was lying motionless, and so pale and 
changed, that Mabel was touched with remorse, and the 
angry words died on her lips as she stood by her side, 
trembling and frightened. 


MABEL CLIFTOX. 


99 


Mrs. Clifton spoke with difficulty : ‘‘ I have been quite 
ill — ■' ah attack of palpitation. I thought I was dying, but 
I am better now.’’ — “Stay,” she said, as Mabel would have 
called for assistance. 

“ This excitement has brought a return of heart-disease J 
quiet is all that is necessary.” She lay quietly for a few 
moments, and Mabel sat absorbed in remorseful thoughts, 
watching her mother’s irregular breathing and the dark 
circles under her eyes. She was not asleep, for after a 
while she looked up and said sadly, — 

“Mabel, it Avas wrong to speak as I did of Mr. Seldon. 
He is a good man, I believe, and will shield and protect you 
if I should be taken from you ; and your father — ” 

There were tears in Mabel’s eyes, but she laid her hands 
gently on her mother’s lips. Mrs. Clifton sighed, and then 
said, still gently and earnestly, — 

“ If you think you love him, I do not blame you ; it will 
be for the best, perhaps.” 

Mabel’s cheek flushed, and she turned her face away for 
an instant. But she was smiling when she bent over her 
mother, almost tenderly, and whispered, — 

“ I intend to marry him, mamma.” 

Mrs. Clifton closed her eyes again and fell into a light 
slumber, from which she did not awake until the bell rang 
for dinner. “She was quite revived,” she said, “and well 
enough to go down stairs ; ” but Mabel would not consent, 
and had dinner brought to their room. 

Mr. Seldon was so concerned at Mrs. Clifton’s illness, 
and sent so many messages and inquiries, that Mabel com- 
passionately decided to go down and speak to him. 

He was walking up and down the breakfast-parlor with 
hasty strides, and the housekeeper sat before the fire with 
her sewing. 

• She was a distant relativCj and domestic affairs seemed-- 


100 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


to be her all-a-bsorbing occupation. There was an ex- 
pression of distrust on her face as she glanced up, and she 
rose and would have left the room, but Mabel motioned 
her to be seated. 

Mr. Seldon did not attempt to restrain his joy at the 
meeting, but the fascination he had exercised was gone, 
and Mabel stood before him with downcast eyes, and a 
deadly terror of the future chilling her veins; and yet 
there was a mingling of tenderness for the man who so evi- 
dently idolized her, that gave her a mien so gentle, that 
Margaret thought, with a feeling of relief, that she had 
judged her wrongly — she had a heart, after all. 

After a short conversation, limited, on Mabel’s side, to 
monosyllables, Mr. Seldon went to IMrs. Clifton’s room, and 
Mabel sat down before the fire to await his return. 

She w'as not accustomed to think of any one but herself, 
and had forgotten Margaret’s presence until she spoke. 

Her voice trembled, though she tried to speak lightly. 

“I suppose I must make up my mind to go, bag and 
baggage.” 

“ Go where ? ” said Mabel, with a withering look, as she 
turned and surveyed her. 

“Well, any place I please, or can; — Mr. Seldon says 
you are to be mistress here. Of course two mistresses won’t 
do, — and I have been head-cook too long — ” 

She did not finish her sentence, for Mabel’s look of sur- 
prise and hateur changed to one of mirth, and she laughed 
gayly as she rose to leave the room, saying, — 

“ I shall not think of interfering with your prerogatives; 
you can retain your old position and welcome.” 

The old woman seemed hurt at her mirth, but she looked 
up as Mabel was about to close the door, and said 
eagerly,— 

“ Stay a minute, if you please. Do you mean to say I 




MABEL CLIFTOX. 101 

can remain after your marriage. Can I keep my old 
place and have the kitchen to myself? ” 

Mabel was aghast at her impudence, as she termed it, 
but she restrained her indignation and said haughtily,-— 

“ I have no intention of interfering in domestic aflliirs,’^ 
and left the room. 

Margaret raised her hands in holy horror; a more 
heretical speech was beyond her imagination to conceive, 
and opposed to all her New-England experience and train- 
ing, and she muttered unconsciously, — 

“ She thinks of getting married, and does not intend to 
interfere in domestic affairs ! 

I 

Mr. Seldon met Mabel at the stairway ; her expression 
was not very inviting, but he detained her to say “ that 
Mrs. Camden had allowed him to assist her to the parlor, 
and that she was lying in her accustomed place, and seemed 
better already for the change.” 

Mabel returned no answer, and when he had finished 
his recital, swept past him with a cold bow. 

Mrs. Clifton made no comment when Mr. Seldon re- 
turned alone to the parlor, for she noticed the disturbed, 
anxious expression of his face, and was fearful Mabel had 
been indulging in one of her freaks of temper. 

Mrs. Clifton was not apt to make intimate acquaintances, 
or to form sudden attachments, but Mr. Seldon’s atten- 
tions and kindness to Mabel and herself, when they so 
much needed a friend, quite won her heart. 

He drew his chair to the sofa, and commenced talking 
with his accustomed cheerfulness; but his restless manner 
showed that he was ill at ease. 

At last the door opened and Mabel entered, radiant with 
smiles, and magnificently attired. 

Her dress was a rich crimson silk with bars of heavy 
9 * 


102 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


velvet, and a diamond pin fastened tlie cobweb lace collar 
at her throat. 

Her hair was arranged in some antique fashion, in a 
wonderful labyrinth of braids and ripples, and her beauti- 
ful arms flashed snowily from among the folds of lace that 
half concealed them. 

But her exquisite face was like a rare gem, so sparkling 
and glowing. 

. Mr. Seldon might have exclaimed, as did the men of 
^ Troy when the beauteous Helen advanced radiant with all 
the loveliness of youth, — 

“ What winning graces ! what majestic mien ! 

She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen ! ’’ 

He only looked the adoration he did not attempt to 
conceal, as he stood like one entranced. 

Even Mrs. Clifton, accustomed as she was to her beauty, 
could scarcely repress an exclamation. 

Mabel was proud of her power over Mr. Seldon’s heart. 
She liked to make the blood rush into his cheek at a word 
or smile, and see his proud eye fall beneath her own. 

Later in the evening, Mabel sat at the piano, the mellow 
light from the waxen candles resting softly on her figure, 
and Mr. Seldon leaned over her as she played, and listened 
with a bliss that was almost agony. She looked up with a 
smile, and he pressed his lips to the beautiful hair that 
shaded her clear w’hite brow% and caught her hands impul- 
sively, and looking in her face, said with a kind of fierce 
tenderness, — 

“Do you. know, I believe you to be a siren! It is 
wicked to love you as I do ! Have you bewitched me ? ” 

Again she w^as fascinated, — drawn toward him as by 
a magnetic influence. 

She laid her cheek against his arm caressingly, and said 
softly, as her eye fell beneath his, — 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


103 


“ It is I who am under a spell ! ” 

She was no longer a siren, but a gentle, loving woman. 

His face was ashy pale, and he placed his arm around 
her tenderly. 

“ You must not play for me again, — not that one piece, 
it is too exciting.” 

She looked up inquiringly, and her cheek grew white 
with a nameless terror, as he whispered, — 

“I will tell you some day.” 

Her infatuation almost equalled his own, for after the 
first thrill of fear, she forgot his strange words, as she 
yielded to the fascination of his impetuous, earnest 
manner. 

Her blindness was wilful, tampering wdth fate. She 
was like a person walking on the extreme verge of a pre- 
cipice, and refusing to see the danger, — while he, though 
on the same precipice, was conscious only of the beautiful 
prospect, and did not dream that danger lurked in such 
enchanting loveliness. 

They w^ere each stranger to the other ; but love ren- 
dered him unmindful of the risk, and marriage seemed the 
only w^ay out of her difiiculties. 

She did not ask herself if the transient feeling she some- 
times experienced for Mr. Seldon could be love. Had it 
been hatred, it would not have altered her purpose ; but 
she liked him well enough to enjoy the present and forget 
the future. 

As MabeFs hand rested in Mr. Seldon’s, with a lingering 
“ good-night,” she said quietly, — 

“This is my last evening with you. Mamma and I are 
going to-morrow.” 

He interrupted her wdth passionate earnestness. “ It 


104 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


will never do to move Mrs. Camden. I will go myself 
until you give me a right to stay.” 

Mabel was obliged to confess that in her mother’s health 
a removal would be dangerous, and that their marriage 
being agreed upon, the sooner it would take place the bet- 
ter for all parties. 

And Mr. Seldon went into lodgings a happy man, for 
the following Tuesday was fixed upon for the wedding. 





% 


CHAPTER XV. 


T he wedding morning dawned, but there was no sunshine, 
and dark clouds were driven wildly athwart the sky. 
Mr. Seldon cared little for the weather, and hurried 
early to the cottage — his heart as buoyant as a bride- 
groom’s has a right to be, — but there was no cheerful 
greeting for him. Mrs. Clifton was weeping bitterly, and 
all his eiTorts to soothe her distress were unavailing. 

Mabel had breakfasted in her room, and she did not 
make her appearance on his arrival. Mr. Seldon started 
at every footstep, expecting to see his beautiful betrothed, 
and his brow clouded as the hour appointed for the cere- 
mony passed and the minutes lengthened into an hour, 
and still she did not come. 

Mrs. Clifton’s fears took a new turn when he informed 
her of the lateness of the hour, and she became suddfely 
composed, for she thought, in an agony of apprehension, 
“ that it would be like Mabel to change Iier mind even 
then.” 

She had disapproved of the marriage, and rendered. firm 
by a fear of her husband’s anger, absolutely refused to 
allow the ceremony to take place in the house. 

Mabel’s indignation and Mr. Seldon’s entreaties could* 
not induce her to relent ; her invariable answer was, — 

‘‘ Mabel chooses for herself, and she must take all the 
responsibility of this step.” 

But she w'as too much attached to Mr. Seldon to wish 
him to be disappointed now. 


105 


106 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


She had watched Mabel and himself closely during the 
week of courtship, and marked with surprise the influence 
he exerted and the pleasure Mabel found in his society ; 
although she had been angry for two days at being obliged 
to be married in the church, yet she was all smiles to him. 

It wanted five minutes of eleven, and Mr. Seldon was 
sitting in silence, with rigidly compressed lips, when Mabel 
entered softly and laid her hand on his arm before he was 
aware of her presence. His face did not clear at once, and 
she touched }iis cheek playfully as she said, — 

“ Have you taken a vow not to speak to me until I am 
Mrs. Seldon?” 

He looked up quickly and forgot his anger. She was 
so superbly beautiful, every feeling of annoyance w^as lost 
in admiration. Still he said, with a look that disarmed 
the words of reproach, — 

“You have' been very cruel ; why did you keep me 
waiting ? ” 

She smiled, and placing her white-gloved hand in his, 
walked toward the door, and he followed her without a 
word. 

j^rs. Clifton covered her face on Mabel’s entrance. She 
w^is determined to be able to tell her husband, who she 
felt sure \vould return, that she had not even seen Mabel 
in her bridal dress. 

But she could not resist the temptation of looking slyly, 
during the little scene between the lovers. 

Mabel wore a heavy moire antique, of a deep purple hue, ' 
trimmed with velvet, and an embroidered mantle of the 
same shade. Her hat was white velvet, perfectly plain 
with the exception of the lace, and a little cluster of moss 
rosebuds in front. 

A hum of admiration rose from the crowded church as 
she entered. Never had such a beautiful vision graced 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


107 


those walls, and Mr. Seldon’s friends who had most blamed 
him for his rashness could excuse him now. 

Mabel and Mr. Seldon knelt side by side and spoke the 
solemn w^ords that united their destinies. 

Her responses were given in a clear, firm tone, but his 
voice was low and husky, and his face white and corpse- 
like. But when they rose from their knees and he looked 
in the blushing, roseate face of his bride, his own became 
radiant. 

The rain was pouring in torrents when they left the 
church, and it. dashed against the carriage-windows as if 
it would force an entrance and the wund blew so furiously 
that Mabel was half alarmed and clung to her husband ; 
he lovingly reassured her, and with his arm tenderly en- 
circling the form nestling near his heart, and the bright 
face against his shoulder, he experienced the bliss that 
comes so seldom and is alas! so fieeting. 

The ride ended, as all pleasures must, sooner or later, 
and Mr. Seldon looked with dismay on the pouring rain. 
In that strong wind, umbrellas were out of the question. 

He stood at the carriage-door, unmindful of the tempeik, 
but in reply to his anxious look, Mabel sprang out gayly 
and ran toward the house, — looking back and laughing, 
and her floating drapery sweeping around her like a purple 
cloud. 

He caught her as she reached the door, and playfully 
dragged her into the parlor, and seating her in a cushioned 
chair, removed her hat and tenderly smoothed her dishev- 
elled tresses. 

Her beautiful dress was discolored by the rain, and the 
moisture was dripping from her velvet mantle, but she was 
smilingly unconscious. 

Mrs. Clifton was fully restored to favor, and Margaret 




108 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


made liappy by her smiles. But what was their com- 
pared to Mr. Seldon’s. 

He had often, during the hours of the passion he then 
thought hopeless, watched Mabel, and recalled Hood’s beau- 
tiful lines to Inez, the artist’s daughter, who was so lovely : 

“ Witli crimson blushes on her cheek. 

And pearls upon her breast ; ” 

and felt with the poet : 

“ Ah, happy must that lover be 
Who walks beneath the light, 

And breathes the love against thy cheek, 

I dare not even write.” 

She was all his own now. He was that happy lover, 
and her starry eyes looked the devotion he had once 
thought he would stake his life to win. After one delicious 
hour, so replete with happiness it might have atoned for a 
life of misery, Margaret came to call them to dinner. 

hir. Seldon was holding Mabel’s bridal hat, tenderly 
wiping the moisture from it and saying, while she laughed 
at his care, — 

“I want to keep it as a memento of this morning.” 

Anything- she had worn or touched was sacred in his 
eyes, and he surveyed its altered appearance somewhat 
ruefully. 

Mrs. Clifton was suggesting a plan by which it might 
be restored to its pristine splendor, and Mr. Seldon, if the 
truth must be told, finding the plan somewhat tiresome, fell 
into a profound reverie, when Margaret took the hat out 
of his listless fingers, and commenced a minute examina- 
tion, Mabel’s flashing eyes following every movement. 

Probably her pride took offence at Mr. Seldon’s sudden 
lackv of interest; but when Margaret put the finishing 


MABEL CLIFTOX. 


109 


touch to her sacrilegious tampering with the treasure de- 
voted to love, by giving it a slight bend, Mabel’s anger 
passed the bounds of endurance, and she sprang forward 
and tore it from her hands, her lips white with passion. 

‘Margaret uttered an exclamation and shrunk back in 
alarm, and Mr. Seldon, not seeing Mabel’s face, or dreaming 
she was so enraged, attempted to regain his luckless treasure, 
saying smilingly, — 

This is my property now.” 

She gave him a look for which a fiend might have blushed, 
and his fingers relaxed their hold. 

She tore her hat to pieces with angry vehemence, and 
flung the fragments into the fire. 

Her velvet mantle shared the same fate, and with another 
scowling look at Mr. Seldon, she turned and left the 
room. 

He reeled as if struck by some sudden blow, and sinking 
into a chair, covered his pallid face with his trembling 
hands. 

Margaret burst into a passion of tears and hurried to the 
kitchen, where she gave full sway to her grief, muttering 
between her sobs, “ My poor, poor boy ! he has married a 
demon.” 

Mrs. Clifton was scarcely less dismayed than the bride- 
groom, who had been so exultant a few minutes before. 

She had been expecting an. outbreak from the day of the 
engagement, and trembled inwardly at every word or look 
of Mr. Seldon’s that might be offensive to Mabel, but had 
at length decided that love was a more powerful master 
than fear, and Mr. Seldon the one person in the world 
who could restrain her daughter’s malignant temper. 

Mr. Clifton had only sufficient influence to prevent a 
public demonstration ; but she thought exultingly that Mr. 
Seldon could keep her from being angry. 

10 


110 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


It was a sore disappointment ; she could not hope now 
that her misguided child would ever be aught than a trial 
to herself and those who loved her. 

Mrs. Clifton had lived a selfish life hitherto, but there 
had been nothing to call into exercise her better qualities, 
but sorrow, and Mr. Seldon’s kindness and generosity, in the 
hour when she ^o needed a friend, and above all the near 
approach of death, had wakened all the kinder impulses 
of her nature. 

She could neither counsel nor restrain Mabel ; but her 
heart ached for her, and for the unhappy bridegroom wdio 
sat before her forgetful of everything but the look of 
scorn in the beautiful eyes that had been before all softness. 

Hours passed, and the silence -was unbroken. 

The wedding-dinner, on which Margaret had expended 
days of care, was untouched, and she at last removed all 
the gay decorations as solemnly as if there had been a 
burial in the house. 

Mrs. Clifton, w^orn out with excitement and troubled 
thought, had fallen asleep, and she awakened with a sudden 
start to find Mr. Seldon still motionless ; she spoke to him, 
and he raised his pale, altered face, and encouraged by her 
kind, sympathetic look — he knelt and laid his cheek against 
her hand as fondly as if she had been in reality his mother. 

“My poor son,” she faltered, “you must not be so un- 
happy — Mabel will not be angry long; — I would have 
w^arned you of her temper, but you seemed to have so much 
influence.” 

She smoothed his hair with her weak, trembling fingers. 

He looked up at last and surveyed her mournfully. 

“ You remind me of my own mother, — I will try and be 
a good son to you.” 

The knowledge that she would not long need his care 
thrilled him with regret, though he tried to say cheer- 
fully,-- 


MABEL. CLIFTON. 


Ill 


“ To find a mother, after all my lonely years, will be of 
itself a sufficient happiness.” 

She smiled sadly. 

“You will have other happiness — Mabel has an un- 
fortunate temper ; ” — but she could not truthfully say it 
was her only fault, and was silent. 

“You must think me very weak,” he said at last; “if 
this had not been my wedding-day, I could have borne it 
better ! ” 

Mrs. Clifton answered with a compassionate look ; she 
could not trust herself to speak. 

Margaret appeared at the door to say that tea was ready. 

Mr. Seldon questioned her pleasantly about some trifling 
affair, and would not see her tearful eyes and care-worn face. 

His apparent cheerfulness did not deceive her watchful 
afiection, and the setting sun of Mr. Seldon’s wedding-day 
never shone on a sadder trio than were assembled round the 
tea-table, in the pleasant parlor. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


T O return to the night of Mr. Clifton’s disastrous ride, 
and the gloomy ravine where he lay beside his mangled 
horse during the long hours, w^atching the pale moon-beams 
as they struggled through the heavy brushwood. He had 
just enough of consciousness to wonder vaguely, “why he 
was in that quiet place,” and to feel an occasional twinge 
of pain. There w as no remembrance of the past, or dread 
of the future, but a strange, delicious feeling of rest and 
j:>eace, only broken by an odd sensation that could scarcely 
be called pain. 

At last he fell asleep, or it may have been a relapse into 
unconsciousness, for he w akened with a sudden start to find 
it broad daylight and the sun high in the heavens. He 
attempted to rise, but a spasm of pain compelled him to be 
quiet, and with a groan he fell back on his bed of moss and 
leaves, that was damp and earthy as a grave. 

The sunbeams could not penetrate the dense mass of foli- 
age that shrouded him like a pall, but it looked mockingly 
bright far above him. 

Gradually the occurrences of the preceding afternoon 
and evening came back to him, — his moonlight ride and 
the fall from the dreadful height. He must have retained 
sufficient presence of mind to w ithdraw his feet from the 
stirrups, otherwise he wmiild have shared the fate of his 
horse, who was lying near him, perfectly dead. He could 
stretch out one hand and reach the poor animal ; the other 
was crushed, and his arm pow^erless. His first thought w\as 
one of thankfulness for his miraculous escape, and then his 

112 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


113 


heart stood still with a sudden terror. He had only been 
preserved from one death, to suffer another more terrible. 
Bruised and mangled as he was, it would be utterly impos- 
sible for him to leave the living tomb that yawned around 
him. There was no hope of rescue from the passing of a 
chance traveller, owing to a dangerous stream to be forded. 
The new road over the thoroughfare to the bridge was the 
one now in constant use. Still, he hoped against hope, and 
listened to every sound. But, alas! a squirrel hopping from 
bough to bough, or the occasional twitter of a bird, alone 
broke the stillness. 

He scarcely heeded the pain in his arm, or the fever that 
was creeping in his veins and so insidiously feeding his strength. 

There was a new hope dawning. “Mabel would receive 
his note and return and search for him ; if his strength 
would only last until then I ” And still he listened for a 
step or voice, and his fever rose higher, and his mind wan- 
dered for a little while, only to show with renewed horror 
his hopeless situation. 

He imagined himself in the pine forest, on the summit 
of the beautiful Fiesole Mount, at Florence. Beatrice was in 
the convent, he thought, but he would persuade her to leave 
the dismal, almost unapproachable retreat, and wander with 
him where the sunshine was dancing among the vineyards and 
orange-groves. But the way was long, and the woods chill 
and dreary, and the convent ever receded as he advanced. 

The angelus that fell soothingly and sweetly on his ear 
ceased, and the silence was so intense, that the sound of 
W'heels came like a rude crash in some melody. 

Mr. Clifton, still among the pine forest that shrouded 
the old convent, listened with surprise. 

“What could it mean? how was a carriage to penetrate 
that recess?” Just then a woman’s voice sounded clear and 
hearty, and with a call for help that burst the silence like 
10* H 


114 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


the shriek of a lost spirit, he came back to the present. It 
was only for a moment. He wondered vaguely if his voice 
was heard, and was sinking again into an unconsciousness that 
he was powerless to resist, when a tall, burly figure bent over 
him, and he felt himself lifted by strong arms, and then all 
was a blank. When he opened his eyes, he was in the light 
,and sunshine, and a woman’s kind face smiled a welcome. 

He drank the cordial she held to his lips, and sank back 
on the pillow that had been spread on the grass, with a de- 
licious feeling of safety. 

The strangers busied themselves examining the extent 
of his injuries. The first words of their conversation were 
lost, but he gathered enough to judge that his injuries were 
not mortal or dangerous, although he was dreadfully bruised 
and his arm ’broken. 

The pain of setting his limb, now much swollen, roused 
him completely to all the trials before him. 

He would not return to his home; Beatrice might be al- 
ready there. If he could only reach the next station and 
telegraph to Mrs. Clifton and Mabel to proceed without 
him, the present at least would be secure. His eagerness 
gave him new strength, and he implored the travellers to 
allow him to ride in their wagon to the station, distant 
forty miles. 

“ I will pay 'you well for your trouble,” he added feebly, 
as he noticed their surprise and hesitation. 

“ It isn’t the pay we are thinking about,” said the stranger 
bluntly; “my wife would like nothing better than to take 
care of you ; but you don’t look like a person accustomed 
to rough it, and our covered wagon is not like a bed in a 
comfortable hotel ; you had better let us persuade you to 
go to the town not more than a mile distant.” 

But Mr. Clifton became so excited at the bare mention, 
that the woman interfered, and begged her husband to allow 
him to have his own way. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


115 


“AYe can take better care of him than they will at a 
crowded hotel, and he seems so anxious to stay with us ; ” 
and she lowered her voice and glanced toward the ri^e 
couch where Mr. Clifton w^as lying, with his eyes fixed 
anxiously on their faces. 

Her husband shrugged his shoulders. 

“ His anxiety is what looks odd to me ; but I have long 
since given up disputing your will, especially as you are 
always in the right — eh, Sally ? ” and he chucked her under 
the chin, and then hurried away tO'^rraiige the light, cov- 
ered wagon for the reception of the stranger, thinking with 
exultation of the addition to his store of money by this 
fancy of his wdfe and the half-crazed gentleman. 

Not that he was unkindly disposed or uncharitable. He 
would have taken the trouble if Mr. Clifton had been too 
poor to remunerate him. His life had been a hard battle 
wdth the world, and now that he was gaining in the struggle, 
he determined to persevere until he w^as completely the 
victor. 

He had studied medicine in the commencement of his 
career, but concluded waiting for patients too slow a w’^ay 
to fortune ; and fancying a buxom, rosy-cheeked country 
girl, married her, and settled down to farming and specu- 
lation. 

He had now a nice little competency, and was travelling 
West to purchase land and renew the practice of his pro- 
fession ; but he still thought it necessary to economize, and 
his wife agreeing that it would be delightful to go in their 
own conveyance, they were making quite a comfortable 
tour of it, stopping at noon in some shady spot, and cook- 
ing their dinner in true backwoodsman style. They had 
lost their w^ay, or rather the main road, in trying to avoid 
the town, when Mr. Clifton’s call for help startled them. 

Any one less determined than our hardy farmer, would have 


116 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


found it difficult to reach the bottom of the ravine where 
Mr. Clifton was lying, and still more difficulty in under- 
taking to carry him up without assistance ; but he did both 
after infinite trouble, and without a thought of reward. 

And quite delighted was he to find himself still skilled 
in his abandoned profession. 

As soon as Mr. Clifton’s bruises were dressed, and he was 
placed in the roomy old-fashioned wagon, our rustic hero 
made his way again to the bottom of the ravine, and 
brought back in triuniph the saddle, and other accoutre- 
ments of the noble animal who had found a grave and 
burial among the weeds and mosses, and in a little while 
the cavalcade moved forward, en route for the town Mr, 
Clifton designated. 

But ere one fourth of the journey had been travelled, he 
was raving in delirium, and requiring such constant care 
and attention, that they were obliged to stop, and devote 
all their time to the charge they had undertaken. 

Mrs. Belt was very much afraid her husband would 
blame her for interfering in behalf of the stranger and 
therefore delaying their progress, but he answered her, “that 
he was glad to have such a critical case in his own hands.” 

“ O dear ! ” she said quite alarmed, and turning deadly 
pale — “ do you think he will die?” 

“ Die ? well, it looks like it now ! but if there is anything 
in skill, I will save him.” 


CHAPTER XVIL 


1 "'EA was over. It had been a dreary meal, taken in 
- almost utter silence. Mr. Seldon w’as the only person 
who made an attempt to be cheerful. 

Mrs. Clifton looked pale and weary, and Margaret saw 
through the flimsy pretence of ease on the part of her 
friend and master, and the rigid lines about her mouth 
quivered, and the tears stole down her wrinkled face, as she 
busied herself with the tea-service. 

Mrs. Clifton did not return to the parlor, and Mr. Seldon 
saw her to her room, and returned to his desolate fireside. 

Such it seemed to him now, although it w^as little more 
than a week since he sat before the same grate, and the 
cheerful room w’as full of light and warmth. 

But he had in that short time known all that life could 
give of joy and misery. 

He would never be so happy again. 

The cloud that shrouded his sunshine might pass away, | 
but its shadow would darken the whole future. ' 

The sense of security was gone, and he sat with bowed 
head thinking sadly and hopelessly, as the hours passed 
unheeded. 

A light step made his heart beat, and the blood rushed ' 
to his face in a hot torrent ; but he did not move. . 

There was a gutter of garments, and Mabel’s dress 
touched him as she leaned to stir the fire, and light the 
waxen candles on the mantel. Her hand, so faultless in 
beauty, flashed in the fire-light, and a slender circlet of 

117 


118 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


gold — her wedding-ring — had taken the place of the 
rich jewels she usually wore. 

His heart thrilled with a sudden joy ; he remembered 
the weary hours of sorrow; but he remembered, also, that 
the woman before him was his wife, — it needed not the 
soft touch of the hand that crept warmly into his, to insure 
her forgiveness ; he clasped it passionately, but he could 
not yet bear to meet the siren-like gaze of the woman he 
idolized; there was still a bitterness in his heart that 
struggled with tenderness, as he sat, his face averted, and 
sternly sorrowful. 

She leaned until her curls brushed his cheek. 

The crimson drapery of her dressing wrapper only 
added to the exquisite whiteness of her beautiful arm, from 
which the sleeve had partly fallen back. 

No sculptor could have imagined anything so perfect. 

Mr. Seldon tried to look away as he wondered “if the face 
he loved was sad and repentant if he could only believe 
it such, contrition would forever erase the recollection of 
the malignant look that came unbidden, like the memory 
of a crime. 

Mabel suddenly knelt before him, and raised her face 
to his. 

It was sparkling and animated; there was not a shadow 
of care on her smooth white forehead ; her cheeks were 
glowing, and her lips crimson and dewy as a rose, when 
the early sunshine trembles on its glittering petals. It was 
a face so bright and happy, and so surpassingly lovely, that 
as he looked the shadow passed from his heart, and he 
drank in her rare beauty with a breathless ecstasy. 

He was like one bound by a spell, and he did not move 
until she rose from her knees and tried to withdraw her 
hand. 

With a half sigh he came back to consciousness, and 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


119 


clasped her to his heart, with a devotion that revived the 
charm he sometimes exercised, and made her for the time 
a loving woman, with a heart almost as wild as his own. 

He did not utter a reproach, he only knew he loved her, 
and revelled in the present without a thought of the past 
or the future. 

Nor did she offer an excuse for her conduct, although her 
eye met his with a fondness that betokened the most tender 
affection. 

The fire burned low in the burnished grate, and the waxen 
candles sputtered and glared as the wind, that .had risen 
higher and higher, burst against the casement, as if it would 
break the frail barrier that opposed its progress. 

Mr. Seldon raised his face from Mabel’s perfumed hair 
and the words trembling on his lips were stayed, as the 
house suddenly quivered, like a vessel among the breakers, 
and the blast roared and shrieked as if a thousand fiends 
w^ere battling. 

Mabel clung to him in terror, and with his arm clasped 
tightly round her, he waited in mute anxiety the fury of 
the tempest. 

There was a crash so heavy and terrible, that Mabel 
gave a shriek of despair, and her white, agonized face 
gleamed for an instant as she started to her feet, and tried 
to free herself from his grasp. But he held her tightly. 
“ Let us die together,” he said faintly, as he clasped her 
passionately in his arms and drew her head on his shoulder. 

After minutes, the suspense lengthened into hours; seem- 
ingly there was a lull in the storm. 

The wind still howled furiously, and the cold air and 
rain came in through the broken windows. 

The lights were out, and the darkness was so intense, 
that it seemed thick with blackness. 


120 MABEL CLIFTON. 

Mabel clung to Mr. Seldon with such agony, that he 
could think of nothing but soothing and reassuring her, 
and could not leave her to investigate the injuries done by 
the storm, or find a place where she would be secure from 
the elements. 

The day slowly broke on a scene of desolation that was 
frightfully dismal. 

The floor was covered with pieces of glass and broken 
fragments ; the curtains and carpets were discolored by the 
rain ; pictures were blown down, and the confusion was 
appalling, 

Mabel gave one look, and then covered her face with her 
hands. ^ Mr. Seldon tried to reassure her, but his pale face 
sadly belied his cheerful words. 

Although not superstitious, he could not help feeling 
that his marriage had brought a curse. Mabel’s manner 
was not calculated to inspire him with hope or confidence, 
— but he loved her so well, that the most terrible future 
was not so appalling as it would have been had he lost her. 

The door opened slowly and Margaret came in. Her 
look of joy at seeing Mr. Seldon unharmed, changed to a 
kind of fear as she looked at Mabel, and she burst into 
tears and lamentations. - » 

“The storm was so dreadful; the whole town was in 
ruins. The roof and chimneys of their house were blown 
away ; it was certainly a judgment ! ” &c. &c. 

Mr. Seldon was too much occupied with Mabel to notice 
Margaret’s incoherent complainings, and almost forgot her 
presence as he bent fondly over his pallid bride. 

Her hands were cold as ice, and sl;ie shivered continually, 
but no endearments or persuasions would induce her to 
answer or even look at her husband. Margaret, seeing 
that she was entirely unnoticed, directed her attention 
to Mr. Seldon and his bride, and commiseration for him 


MABEL CLIFTOK 


121 


roused all her affection ; her heart swelled to bursting with 
grief and anger, and finally unable longer to endure his 
distress, she turned to leave the room. 

She had reached the door and laid her hand on the 
latch, when a scream disturbed the stillness — another, and 
another followed in quick succession, and Margaret sank 
on her knees, completely overwhelmed with the fear of a 
new calamity. Mabel rose to her feet, and pushing Mr. 
Seldon from her, said passionately, as she wrung her hands 
in frenzied terror, — 

I will not stay in this dreadful house another hour ! — 
What shall I do?” 

Mr. Seldon stood irresolute, and the maid rushed in, her 
hair all disordered, and her cheeks bloodless. 

“ Oh, in heaven’s name, come to Mrs. Camden’s room, — 
she is dead ! ” 

Mr. Seldon sprang past her, and was hurrying up the 
stairs, before he realized the full import of the words ; the 
deadly chill at his heart almost deprived him of strength 
to cross the threshold ; he could not sufiiciently deplore 
what he termed his selfishness, in leaving a delicate 
woman to meet alone the terrors of a storm so violent 
that he, a strong man unu^ to fear, had quailed before it. 
This passed through his mind as he bent over the bed, on 
which lay a rigid, inanimate form, with closed eyes and 
parted lips, and dark circles on the pallid cheeks. He 
turned shudderingly away, grief and remorse struggling 
with his feeling of pity for Mabel. “ How could he prepare 
her for the dreadful news ! ” But she needed no prepara- 
tion— she had followed slowly, he^rembling limbs almost 
refusing to support her. Her eyes were fixed on the bed, 
and her face almost transformed with terror. Mr. Seldon 
put his arm around her tenderly. 

My poor darling, come away,” he said compassionately. 

11 


122 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


She suffered him to draw her from the room and to close 
the door, though her eyes seemed riveted with a terrible 
fascination toward the silent figure. 

She gave a sigh of relief when the closing door shut it 
from her vision. But she withdrew herself from her hus- 
band’s encircling arms, a minute after, with a look of dis- 
like. 

“You will not cast me from you, now that you are in 
trouble?” he said appealingly ; but she answered coldly, — 

“ You have brought me nothing but trouble and misery, 
and I hate the sight of you ! ” 

She scarcely meant to be so cruel, although she unrea- 
sonably blamed him, as if he had been the cause of her 
terror and of the misery she scarcely yet realized; she did 
not -wish to be alone, or to cast him from her, and yet, 
trouble chafed her into a kind of anger. 

Her words destroyed the last remnant of endurance. He 
had borne all in silence hitherto, and without a murmur, 
but he turned away now with a wild, despairing sob that 
touched even her heart. 

He was gone before she could recall him, and Margaret’s 
wrathful face glared at her for an instant, as she brushed 
past her and entered Mrs. Clifton’s room. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


HE door closed on Margaret’s retreating figure, and 



-L Mabel crouched against the low window-seat, fearing 
-to be alone, and dreading to pass the room in which lay 
the silent figure she thought of with a terror that over- 
mastered her grief. 

“ If only Mr. Seldon would come to her now.” She was 
half tempted to call him, but as she rose, frightened and 
irresolute, a hasty ring of the bell from her mother’s room 
stai'tled her, and Margaret’s face appeared at the door. 
' Her quick eye caught sight of Mabel, and she said 
peremptorily, — 

“ Call Mr. Seldon. Your mother is not dead, but her life 
depends on our care,” and she disappeai’ed almost instantly, 
and before Mabel could stir to obey her, Mr. Seldon ran 
up the stairs. 

She heard his voice quick and distinct in consultation 
with Margaret, and then he hurried past her, without a 
glance. A minute after, the hall-door shut with a clang, 
and Mabel covered her face with her hands and crept 
again to the darkened corner. 

All was bustle and confusion in the room before so silent. 
Betty rushed to and fro at Margaret’s bidding, and in a 
short time Mr. Seldon returned with the physician. 

The door was now left open, and Mabel could hear each 
sound distinctly; at last there was a low, faint murmur of a 
familiar voice, and she started forward with a joyful excla- 
mation; but Margaret met her before she reached the 
threshold, and with her finger on her lips, to enforce 


124 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


silence, motioned her to follow, and led the way across the 
hall. Mabel was too excited and nervous to dispute her 
authority, and when Margaret had closed the door, she 
turned to her with a strange mixture of aversion and pity^^ 
on her face, as she explained that “ Mrs. Camden was now 
restored to consciousness, but the doctor would not allow 
any one to speak to her, except Mr. Seldon.” — “ Indeed,” 
interrupted Mabel, with a curl of her lip, and a return of 
her haughty manner, now that she was relieved^from the 
haunting fear of death, “I should think the doctor might 
have at least consulted my wished and it strikes me that, 
as her daughter, my right to enter her sick-room would be 
paramount to a stranger’s.” Margaret looked at her with 
a disdain she did not attempt to conceal, and commenced 
indignantly, — 

“ And who has shown the most attention and care — ” 
when a tap at the door startled them, and at the first 
glimpse of Mr. Seldon, 'svho entered as Margaret said 
“come in,” Mabel turned, with a gleam of pleasure that 
changed her face like magic, and stretched out her arms 
With very much the air of a petted child willing to be 
restored to favor. 

A flush rose to Mr. Seldon’s pale, haggard cheek, and 
he looked at her doubtfully, as if he scarcely could hope 
he had rightly interpreted her meaning. 

She did not change her position, but she murmured his 
name softly, and spite of her night. of terror, her face was 
i'oseate and sparkling. 

Margaret, w^atching them both with an angry, jealous eye, 
did not wonder that Mr. Seldon’s face brightened. She was 
forced to admit that the beautiful creature tempting hint 
to her side was irresistible ; and, much as she hated and 
feared her, she could not have turned from that face, had 
she known it was leading her to destruction. But she could 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


125 


not have felt more bitter anguish, had she been in reality 
a sorceress, when Mr. Seldon, his countenance radiant with 
happiness, hurried to her side. The faithful old woman 
left the room and resumed her duties at Mrs. Clifton’s bed- 
side with a more aching heart than she had ever known 
during her whole life. 

Mrs. Clifton ’was now restored to consciousness, but life 
fluttered so feebly in her veins, that each breath seemed 
her last. , She had become very much attached to Mr. Sel- 
don ; his kindness had been unceasing, and it had been her 
only pleasure. 

Mabel’s coldness the week preceding her marriage had 
been a sore trial, but it made her turn to Mr. Seldon as 
her only refugee The excitement of the wedding-day brought 
a return of her heart-disease. 

It was so sudden and violent, she could not call for assist- 
ance, and before the storm burst in its fury was perfectly 
insensible. 

Her room being less exposed, and the shutters securely 
fastened, it had escaped unharmed. 

Margaret entered the room with noiseless steps, and as 
she leaned to give the iced cordial the doctor ordered, such 
a shade of disappointment crossed her patient’s face, that 
she said kindly as she smoothed her pillow, “Do you want 
Mr. Seldon?” 

Mrs. Clifton murmured something about his being over- 
come with watching, and Margaret seated herself quietly 
by the bed; but noticing that Mrs. Clifton’s. e}"es turned 
continually toward the door, she decided to go in search 
of Mr. Seldon, motioning Betty to take her place at the 
bedside. She stole quietly across the hall, to the room in 
which she had left Mabel and Mr. Seldon. She entered 
without rapping, not dreaming herself guilty of rudeness ; 
but she was not long in doubt as to her error, for before 
11 * 


126 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


slie could mention her errand, Mabel ordered her to leave 
the room and never enter her presence again, unless she 
was requested. 

Mabel was lying on a couch, and Mr. Seldon, who was% 
covering her carefully with a shawl, paused in dismay and 
whisphred something in her ear ; but she answered coldly 
and haughtily, and without attempting to lower her voice, 
“I am not accustomed to receive instructions in regard to 
•my treatment of servants.” 

Margaret was at first too angry to speak, and stood look- 
ing from one to the other, as if stupefied ; but the last insult 
recalled her confused faculties, and she advanced toward 
them, trembling with anger and injured feeling. 

“That she should have lived to be called a servant!” It 
was an unth ought- of term in the quiet little town where 
she had been reared. 

Besides, she had loved and cared for Mr. Seldon from 
his childhood, as if he had been her ‘own son, and to be in- 
sulted by his wife was more than she could bear. 

Her age alone niight have appealed to Mabel’s pity, as 
she stood before her,' with such a pallor on her wrinkled, 
weather-beaten face, and such a shaking of her usually up- 
right figure?. 

Mr. Seldcm had bepn kneeling by Mabel’s side, and his 
arm was thrown around her still ; but his eyes were turned 
to Margaret . with an expression so appealing and heart- 
broken, th|t her anger changed to compassion ; and when 
Mabel said,^“ Will you order that insolent woman to leave 
the room, or did you only marry me to expose me to in- 
sult?” Margaret did not attempt to reply, but with a 
mingled groan and sob hurried away as fast as her totter- 
ing limbs would carry her, stopping not till she reached her 
own room, when she flung herself on the bed and moaned 
as if in extreme physical pain. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


127 


But it was Dot of herself or the iudignity she had suffered, 
of which she thought ; it was only of Mr. Seldon and the 
life in store for him. 

Mr. Seldon watched her retreating figure with a wild, 
haggard look and a restless gleam in his eye. Mabel was 
a little frightened, and feared she had gone too far ; but 
after a minute’s silence she wound her arms around his 
neck and drew his face toward hers. 

It was like the gleam of a light-house to the troubled 
mariner, the face looking into his own ; and again he 
yielded to the fascination that left him no power of resist- 
ance, and blotted out every trial while he basked in its 
sunshine. 

Mabel even deigned to explain her conduct, and drew 
such a picture of Margaret’s insolent manner to her, when 
she was unhappy and thought her mother dead, that he 
freed his beautiful darling from all blame ; although he 
pitied Margaret and asked Mabel, ‘‘for his sake to be kind 
to her.” INIabel gave a scowl he happily did not observe, 
as he had turned to leave the room, thinking, as he went, 
that Mabel’s happiness should evei be his first consider- 
ation, whatever it involved. He returned in a few minutes 
and kindled a fire in the grate ; but before his task was 
completed, Mabel was fast asleep. He felt a shade of dis- 
appointment ; he wanted a kind glance from those won- 
drous eyes, before he left her. But it was only momentary, 
and with a fond, lingering look at her beautiful face, now 
as placid and innocent as an infant’s, he resumed his watch- 
ing at Mrs. Clifton’s bedside, and the welcoming smile and 
feeble pressure of her hand repaid him for the sacrifice of 
his inclination, 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Li\IOST a week had passed since Mr. Clifton’s rescue. 



He awakened from a heavy sleep and looked around 
him. It was all strange ; the ceiling low, and the walls bare 
and whitewashed. He attempted to rise, but fell back on 
the pillow, faint and breathless. But his movement brought 
Mrs. Belt to his bedside. Her face looked familiar, but he 
could* not remember where he had mef her before, until 
she smilingly explained his accident, and that he had 
grown so very sick, they were obliged to stop with him at 
the farm-house where they now were. 

He would have spoken ; but she said with a gentle air 
of authority, “ You must not talk any now, or all my good 
nursing will be lost he was too weary to contest the point, 
and after taking a little nourishment, dropped into a gentle 
natural sleep, and all through the day and night slum- 
bered and awakened alternately, thinking that the face of 
his kind watcher was very pleasant and motherly, and feel- 
ing too easy and comfortable to think of anything more. 

But as he recovered strength, all the incidents of the 
day on which he decided to leave his home came thronging 
back, and his desire to be well was so strong as to seriously 
retard his recovery. 

Mr. Belt rode to the nearest telegraph station and de- 
spatched to Mr. Clifton’s wife first, and then to his lawyer, 
and finally to the mayor of the city. 

But nothing was known of Mrs. and INIiss Clifton, and 
the lawyer was out of the city. 

Mr. and Mrs.'Belt managed to keep him in ignorance of 


MABEL CLIFTON-. 


129 


tlie time he had been sick, and he was spared that anxiety. 
But it was almost three weeks from the time of his acci- 
dent, when he took his seat in the cars to commence his 
journey. 

Mrs. Belt shed tears at parting with him ; but her hus- 
band’s joy at the very liberal sum with which his services 
w^ere remunerated overmastered any other emotion. In 
short, they all separated with mutual expressions of good 
wdll, and took their opposite paths in life as contentedly 
as if they had never met. 

Mr. Clifton reached his destination without accident, 
and with less fatigue tlian might have been expected from 
his weak state. His first act was to dispatch a messenger 
for his lawyer, whose prompt arrival, and, above all, whose 
Avelcome intelligence in regard to his wife and daughter, 
relieved him of a load of apprehension. 

The lawyer, after allowing Mr. Clifton time to recover a 
little from his joy, reluctantly gave him the letter he had 
received from Mrs. Clifton. Mr. Clifton looked very ill 
and was unable to bear anxiety ; he was completely over- 
come for a time, and sat with bent head and averted face. 

When he recovered his composure, he commenced a dis- 
cussion as to the route and the time required to reach the 
town designated in Mrs. Clifton’s letter, but made no allusion 
to Mabel’s cond]j.ct. 

The lawyer talked in a light strain, and treated the 
whole affair as rather an amusing adventure ; but Mr. Clif- 
ton’s cold face showed he did not look upon it so leniently. 

The lawyer with a compassionate desire to arrange the 
difficulty as satisfactorily as possible, then suggested that 
Miss Clifton’s inference, in regard to the note, was not only 
natural but unavoidable, and in confirmation of his words, 
produced the ill-fated note. The only words legible were, 
“ My bank-book will show you all of my availably- means,” 

I # 


< 


130 


MABEL CLIFTOl!}-. 


and they were so discolored and indistinct as to be almost 
illegible. 

Mr. Clifton made no comment, and threw himself wearily 
on the sofa, his thin, emaciated hands shading his eyes. ; 
He did not seem angry, and once the lawyer thought he 
saw a tear. Man of the world as he was, and unused to 
sentiment, he could not help being painfully aifected by 
the change in a person, who had been so strong and so 
seemingly far removed from all the trials of life. 

The hard-working man of business had often thought 
Mr. Clifton’s fate an enviable one, — and now he was broken 
in health and energy, and feeble as a child. But his in- 
domitable will still remained, for it was not long before he an-, 
nounced his intention of taking a fresh train and joining 
his wife. No persuasions or arguments were sufficient to 
induce him to relinquish his purpose, although the effort 
of making the necessary arrangements seemed more than 
he could bear. 

The lawyer, with a sad heart, saw him aboard the train 
and even offered to accompany him. Mr. Clifton refused 
his offer gratefully and firmly, although he held his hand, 
eagerly, and seemed loth to part with him as he said : 

“ If you should write to me, give me the name my 
daughter saw fit to assume. I will not expose her ” — he 
could not finish the sentence. After a ■while he said hur- 
riedly, — “You will think me very weak and unmanly, but 
it is hard to meet with disrespect and insult from a child, — 
so hard, I hope you will never realize it.” , 

The lawyer wrung his hand in silence, and they parted. 

Mr. Clifton sat with bent head, thinking intently, — one 
minute of his wife’s trust and devotion, and then of Mabel’s 
insulting inference in regard to himself. There was no 
excuse for her; she had no reason to think him capable of 
so base an act. It was dreadful ! And then, like oil on 



} 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


131 


the troubled waters, would come the remembrance of’ his 
wife’s trust, and his heart would be completely softened. 

He longed to see her so earnestly, that it gave him 
strength. He had never known how dear she was until 
now. All her little faults and inconsistencies were effaced 
from his recollection. He remembered only that she had 
loved him with a devotion he had never returned, and, 
alas ! never before appreciated. Beatrice was forgotten, 
even the disgrace threatening his name if she claimed to 
be his wife, as he thought of Mrs. Clifton, in a miserable 
Western town, deprived of the luxuries to which she had 
been accustomed, and with no protector except Mabel, 
whose pride and hauteur might expose them to insult. 
Fortunately, he found refuge from his anxiety in sleep, 
when he exchanged the cars for the lumbering stage-coach. 
He only wakened at intervals, and when he entered the 
town, at the end of his journey, he was much stronger than 
when he'started. 

It was quite dark, and he had no means of judging of the 
town. The hotel was dismal, but the friendly shadows 
hid its defects, and all Mr. Clifton noticed was the portly 
landlord, as he bustled forward, lantern in hand, and 
opened the coach-door. 

“ Is Mrs. Camden stopping here? ” asked Mr. Clifton 
eagerly. The landlord, whose curiosity overmastered his 
disappointment at the probable loss ^f a guest, said that 
she was at Mr. Seldon’s, and was about to indulge in a 
lengthy harangue ; when Mr. Clifton interrupted him by 
inquiring of the coachman, “if he could drive there?” 
and before the astonished landlord recovered his speech, 
the coach had rattled off and disappeared in the darkness. 

.A 




CHAPTER XX. 


M rs. CLIFTOX rained, notwithstanding her physician’s 
prediction that she would not live through the day. She 
seemed cheerful and contented, and each member of the 
household vied with the other in attention and kindness. 

Mabel was gracious to every one but Margaret, who was 
not yet restored to favor, and who, by wisely keeping in 
the background, managed to preserve a truce. Mr. Seldon 
was fully occupied between the sick-room, where his beau- 
tiful wife spent the most of the time, and in superintending 
the refitting of the parlor. 

The work progressed rapidly, although it seemed slow to 
him. Mabel would scarcely venture down stairs at all, 
and protested she would never have courage to again enter 
the room where she had been so frightened. 

She sat most of the time before the fire, her hands 
listlessly folded, and her eyes downcast ; and her mother 
watched her fondly, hour after hour, and noted with joy 
the magical effect of Mr. Seldon’s entrance. 

‘‘She loves him,” would be her inward comment, as 
she saw her deepening color and animated look. His de- 
votion was almost painfully intense, but it met with no 
unkind return. It was all sunshine now, when he visited 
the invalid’s cheerful room. 

■ Mrs. Clifton sometimes thought she had never been so 
happy before. 

Adversity had taught her to think of others ; self had 
‘once been her first object and care, and now her children 
were all. Mabel was very tender with her, and seemed to 
wish to atone for her past neglect. 

132 


) 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


133 


It was late in the afternoon, several days after the storm. 
Mrs. Clifton was so much better, that she decided to dress 
and sit up a while, and Margaret, willing to humor all her 
whims, assisted her. Mabel’s toilet was very elaborate^ 
^ although rather unappropriate to the occasion. It was a 
full dinner-dress of rose-colored brocade, elaborately trimmed 
with lace, and her ornaments were opals and diamonds. 

Mrs. Clifton could scarcely look away from her, and 
W’hen her owm toilet was completed, called her softly. — 
Margaret retreated to a corner at Mabel’s approach. 

“ What is it, mamma ? ” said Mabel, sw^eetly looking wdth 
pride at her still beautiful mother. 

One W’ould have supposed her an elder sister of the 
young girl bending over her so gracefully. Since Mrs. 
Clifton’s illness, her face had, somehow, an infantine look : 
it w’as so very white, and her beautifully pencilled eye- 
brow’s and ebon hair contrasted finely wdth its marble-like 
purity. There was not a shadow of hateur or pride, but 
a calm that w’as almost touching. Her snowy cashmere 
W’rapper fell in graceful folds, although she had not studied 
the arrangement ; dress had been her passion once, but that 
W’eakness was over now. 

She was nearing the shore of that icy river where the 
pomps and vanities of life are laid aside. 

Religion had not occupied much of her time or thoughts, 
but in her own feebleHtay she was looking forward to the 
golden shores. 

She drew Mabel’s fip.^e close to her own, and smoothed 
her rippling hair. Mabel was not a person who usually 
endured caresses, but she was gentle now. 

Her mother looked long and lovingly in her face, as if 
it was a farewell she was taking, and there was something 
solemn in her earnest gaze ; at last she murmured, in a soft, 
sad tone, “ You are so lovely, Mabel, so lovely ; ” she looked 
12 


f 


134 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


at her wistfully as if she would fain say more, and a faint 
flush rose to her cheek, but she could not gain the courage 
to counsel or advise, and after a little hesitation only said, 
“ Kiss me, dear, like you used to when a little girl ; ” — 
and Mabel, completely softened, threw her arms round her 
neck and kissed her with a fondness she had perhaps never 
shown before. 

She seemed half ashamed as Mr. Seldon came toward 
them and commenced a laughing apology, but Mr. Seldon 
did not allow her to finish. “ I have come to show you 
the parlor, my darling, and if you like it as much as I 
hope, I will come back for dear Mrs. Camden ; ” and he 
glanced fondly toward her. She smiled an assent he did not 
see, for Mabel, with her rare beauty and her most witching 
mood, was near him. 

The parlor met with her entire approbation ; and after a 
while he went back for Mrs. Clifton, and without heeding 
her laughing remonstrance, took her in his strong arms and 
carried her down to the sofa. 

They had a very happy time. Mabel was in the gayest 
spirits, and laughed and talked incessantly. 

There was only one cloud in their sunshine, but it passed 
so quickly that Mrs. Clifton, who had fallen asleep, was 
not aware of it. 

Mr. Seldon and Mabel were standing at the window, 
when she called his attention to some persons walking up 
the gravel path. “ What queer specimens of humanity, 
she said, laughingly, — “ friends of your incomparable Mar- 
garet, I suppose.” 

She touched his cheek lightly with the tips of her rosy 
fingers. 

His cheeks were flushed, and after a little hesitation he 
said, — 

“They are friends of mine,” — she raised her eyebrows 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


135 


•with a kind of insolent surprise, — “and they are coming to 
see you.” 

He saw the storm gathering in her face, and said hurriedly, 
“ Shall I excuse you ?” 

“ You can do as you please,” she said, carelessly ; “ but I 
will never, upon any pretence, consent to speak or visit any 
of these people. 

“ But how can you live here without visiting them ? ’’ 
She turned angrily away, and he walked to the door, his 
heart beating painfully. 

They w^ere plain, old-fashioned people, hut they had been 
his parents’ friends, and he revered and loved them. He 
could not tell them his wife would not see them, and he 
could not admit them without subjecting them to insult, 
and going through a scene with Mabel that might cause 
her mother’s death. Margaret was in the hall. 

“ Wait a minute,” he said, — but he could not for a while 
bring himself to tell her, and she knew from his face some- 
thing painful had occurred. 

“ Margaret,” he said at last in a husky voice, “ we cannot 
see any one to day,” wdth an emphasis on “ any one.” 

Margaret looked at him in surprise, and he repeated the 
words sadly, adding, “ Mrs. Camden is not well enough to 
see any stra*ngers.” 

Mabel hurried to meet him. “It was so good of you to 
rid me of those tiresome persons. I will play for you as a 
reward.” — But he drew her away from the piano, and said 
firmly, although the shadow was gone from his face, — 

“ I cannot have them insulted ; you must not play now.” 
I descended to a miserable subterfuge for your sake.” 

She was half tempted to be angry, but he drew her to 
him suddenly with a fierce kind of impulsiveness that 
ahvays mastered her, and said passionately : “ I sometimes 
think I have sold myself to a beautiful sorceress, who 
will charm me to destruction ; is it so ? ” 


156 MABEL CLIFTON. 

Mabel laughed merrily, and laid her head on his shoul- 
der with a look that made him forget all but herself; and 
he was again her willing slave. The hours passed slowly, 
and the night came in clear and starry. 

The firelight danced on the wall and shone fitfully on 
the sofa where Mrs. Clifton was lying. 

Mabel and Mr. Seldon were in shadow, and she grew 
tired of the fitful glare, and Mr. Seldon rose to light the 
wax candles. 

. He laughingly told her she was so beautiful in that 
softened light, that she was beyond comparison ; and she 
was protesting against such flattery, when there was a 
sharp ring at the door. 

IMabel’s brow clouded, but Mr. Seldon said eagerly, “ I 
told Margaret we would not see any one.” Mabel smiled 
bewitchingly and put. her hand through his arm, when a 
strange voice was heard in the hall. Mrs. Clifton rose to 
her feet, and her cheeks gleamed with the beauty of girl- 
hood. 

Mabel turned deadly pale, and Mr. Seldon looked from 
one to the other in surprise. 

“ What is it, Mabel ; are you frightened ? ” but she did 
not answer, and clung to his arm ; her eyes turned to the 
door with an anxious expression, and yet she was shrinking 
as if in fear. 

Margaret’s voice was raised in expostulation, and after 
a minute of suspense, she opened the door and motioned to 
Mr. Seldon. 

But before he could release himself from Mabel’s grasp, 
Mr. Clifton entered, so pale and corpse-like that Mabel 
repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and looked at 
him in speechless terror. 

He did not see her at first, and commenced hurriedly, — 
“ Sir, you will pardon my intrusion, when ” — His eye rested 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


137 


on Mabel, and surprise at her strange position was suc- 
ceeded by anger. 

He advanced toward her, and she shrank back, trembling 
in every limb, and clinging closer to Mr. Seldon. 

1 There was a rustle, a light footstep, and Mrs. Clifton 
threw her arms round her husband, and falling on her 
knees, raised her beautiful face imploringly, and gasped, 
“ Edward, Edward ! forgive her, forgive us ! ” 

12 * 






CHAPTER XXL 


M r. CLIFTOX stooped and raised his wife in his arms 
and laid her on the sofa. 

Everything was forgotten in his alarm, as the hectic faded 
from her cheek and left her white as marble, except the 
dark circles under her eyes. She held his hands clasped 
tightly, and her fingers were icy cold. He looked at Mr. 
Seldou as if imploring his help. Mabel had disappeared 
as soon as her father’s stern face was taken from her. 

Mr. Seldon was overcome with astonishment at the strange 
scene just enacted. He had supposed Mrs. Camden a widow, 
and Mabel’s extreme fear was incomprehensible to him 
But Mr. Clifton’s appeal was understood, although his 
trembling lips could not utter a sound, and, calling Marga- 
ret, he kindly hurried for a doctor. When’ they returned, 
the paroxysm was over, and Mrs. Clifton sitting in a chair, 
supported by pillows. Her eyes w’ere bright, and her 
breath came in short, quick spasms. 

Her husband was sitting beside her, so pale and haggard, 
that an inexperienced person would have supposed him the 
nearest death. The doctor shook his head with a grave 
expression, and made out a prescription for him. “You 
need it to give you strength,” he said, as Mr. Clifton de- 
murred and insisted that his wife should be attended to first. 

Mrs. Clifton smiled sadly and glanced toward the doctor ; 
his grave, pitying fa6e told her all ; and after a minute’s 
silence she said, in a firm, clear tone, so sweet and distinct, 
that none of her hearers ever forgot the sound : ^ 

138 


M A BEL ’CLI FTON. 


% 

139 

“I would like to see my husband alone a little while; 

I will not have long, doctor ? He bowed assent to her 
inquiring look, and they all left the room but Mr. Clif- 
ton, who felt like one whose last hope was sinking in 
darkness. 

He took the chair beside her and drew her head tender- 
ly on his shoulder. She saw that it was not necessary to 
prepare him, for the despair on his face was legibly written, 
and she had much to tell him of Mr. Seldon’s kindness, and, 
finally, of Mabel’s marriage. It scarcely seemed of impor- 
tance, now that the death-angel was drawing nearer and 
nearer. Mr. Clifton even promised to forgive Mabel, al- 
though it w'as very hard, and he hesitated at first ; but Mrs. 
Clifton grew so ghastly white that,, in an agony of terror, he 
threw his arms around her as if he w^ould keep her from 
the grasp of death, and said huskily: “I wall do anything 
for your sake.” 

She smiled faintly, and lay with closed eyes for a little 
time, and then said feebly, “Call Mabel and Mr. Seldon.” 

He arose and crossed the room "he scarcely knew how. 
Margaret was waiting outside the door, “Shall I tell them to 
come?” He bowed his head in silence. 

The one instant he had been away had done the w^ork of 
hours. There was no hectic now on Mrs. Clifton’s cheek, 
and a grayish tinge shaded the transparent 'whiteness of her 
marble cheek; but thei'e was an indescribable change that 
comes but once and can never be forgotten. ^ 

She was still conscious, and stretched out her arms to her 
husband ; but death stepped between them, and before he 
could reach her sidd, her spirit had left its earthly tene- 
ment. 

He could not believe it at first, as he bent over her in 
speechless agony and held her cold, nerveless fingers. 

The door opened quietly, and Mr. Seldon led in the 


140 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


l: 


trembling, shrinking Mabel. Her terror of any one dead 
almost amounted to insanity, and he could scarcely per- 
suade her that her mother was still living, after Margaret 
brought them the message ; but the sight of her father, 
bending over the familiar figure, gave her courage, and she 
stood beside him before he knew of her presence. 

He raised his grief-stricken face and held out his hand 
to his daughter. “ I forgive you, Mabel,” he said, in a low, 
suppressed tone. She withdrew herself from her husband’s 
arms and advanced a step forward, when she caught sight 
of her mother’s face, and with a shriek of terror, fell sense- 
less to the floor. 

They left Margaret alone with the dead, in their anxiety 
for the living. 

Mr. Seldon was almost wild with grief and alarm, as 
Mabel only recovered from one fainting fit to relapse into 
another. All through the long night Margaret, with the 
assistance of a few neighbors, — one of them the kind old 
lady who had been refused admittance to the house in the 
afternoon, — prepared Mrs. Clifton for her long, dreamless 
sleep. 

The hands that robed her so solemnly were hardened 
with toil, but their touch was gentle, and there W’as no lack 
of tears as they smoothed the snowy linen around her 
pulseless form. 

She was far more lovely in death than when living. The 
slight shade of discontent that usually curled her lips was 
gone, and a smile, placid and beautiful, lighted up the 
snowy purity of her delicately chiselled features. They were 
loth to turn away, and watched her until morning. Mr. 
Clifton then came in, and they stole noiselessly from the 
room. 

Mabel had fallen into a natural sleep, and there was 
no more cause for anxiety on her account. ^Vll Mr. 


MABEL CLIFTOX. 


141 


Clifton’s love for her had revived, as he watched her through 
the night, and it required all his gratitude for Mr. Seldon’s 
kindness, and the remembrance of his wife’s pleadings, to 
restrain the jealous indignation he felt at her marriage. 

But when he entered the silent room, where death had 
set his dreary sentinels, and the very air was thick with the 
shadow of the dark angel, every bitter feeling was forgotten. 

His very breath was hushed, as he stood beside his wife’s 
pulseless form, not daring to lift the drapery that shrouded 
the mortal remains of the once gay and beautiful Mrs. Clif- 
ton. All the incidents of his married life came crowding 
back. 

He remembered her haughty, graceful beauty on their 
•wedding-day ; but he felt with a pang that his heart was 
then full of love for another. Affection and kindness he 
had given the woman who had passed through life uncon- 
scious that her dearest right was -wnthheld, but never love, 
until the closing hours of her existence. 

It was no relief to think that she would not perhaps have 
appreciated a warmer feeling. 

The trial through which she had passed had awakened all 
the fine, womanly instincts that had lain dormant. 

Had he been all he should, would not love have awakened ^ 
what indifierence kept slumbering ? In his meditations by 
the beautiful form once so full of health, he could only re- 
member her devotion to him ; the faults once so glaring 
were all forgotten. There was no sophistry that could 
lighten his own conscience. 

By the silent, pulseless figure did he mourn over “Every 
past benefit unrequited . — every past endearment unregard- 
ed — of the departed being, who could never, never, never 
return.” 

Margaret came to him after a time, and tried to per- 
suade him to rest a while, and let her take his place ; poor 



142 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


old Margaret, whose peaceful life had been broken into 
suddenly — and whose upright figure was bent already. 

Mr. Clifton’s heart warmed toward her. She had cared 
for his wife tenderly, and she looked grief-worn. “You 
need rest yourself, my good woman,” he said, so kindly, 
that the tears came to her eyes. Finding it useless to urge 
him, she left him to his lonely vigils. 

He drew a large chair by the side of the shrouded form, 
and resumed his sorrowful reflections ; but as the day ad- 
vanced, the silence and fatigue overpowered him, and he 
fell asleep, his mind wandering dreamily through beautiful 
scenes. 

He half awakened once, and like a jar in some melody 
came the thought of his wife and his sorrow ; and then he 
slumbered again, and saw her a radiant angel, in pure and 
shining wdiite, with wondrous flowers about her, and her 
mouth so calm and smiling, he gazed in ecstasy until, as 
he stretched out his arms toward her, she disappeared, and 
in his disappointment he awoke. 

The sheet was thrown back, and his dream was realized. 
There was no color, or life, but the smile, and the calm, ex- 
quisite beauty and repose were there. He felt that she 
w^as happy, even while he bent over her with tears that 
did not shame his manhood, and he knelt and kissed her 
icy lip. 

As he attempted to rise from his knees, a sudden dark- 
ness enveloped him. 

Some one handed him a glass of water, and when the 
mist cleared away from his eyes, he saw it was Mr. Seldon. 
His face was troubled and anxious, and he explained that he 
had been arranging some flowers ; his voice trembled and 
he looked away. Mr. Clifton held out his hand, and said, 
falteringly, “She liked you very much — will you stay 
awhile?” 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


143 


He was too utterly exhausted to say more, and fell back 
in his chair, faint and giddy. 

Mr. Seldon called the doctor, who had not left the house, 
and they assisted him to the room his wife had quitted a 
few hours before. 

He seemed perfectly unconscious — but the doctor as- 
sured Mr. Seldon that it was only fatigue. 

Margaret took her place by the bed-side, with a sinking 
heart, muttering, as the door closed on Mr. Seldon’s re- 
treating figure, — 

‘‘ She brought a curse — Heaven help us all ! 

But Mr. Seldon did not think so, as he stole quietly in 
his wife’s darkened room, to see if she was still sleeping, 
and tenderly kissed her. There had been sorrow and deso- 
lation, almost from the hour she crossed the threshold as 
his bride ; but there had been happiness, too, that far ex- 
ceeded his wildest dreams, and even the shadow of death 
could not chill all the warm, bright visions that clustered 
round his heart, and solaced his lonely vigils through the 
night. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


"jlTORXING dawned, but Mr. Seldon’s difficulties in- 
JltJ. creased as the hours passed in their slow tedious course. 
Mr. Clifton was raving in delirium, and Mabel so nervous 
and excitable, that the doctor thought it best to keep her 
under the influence of opiates. 

Margaret scarcely left Mr. Clifton’s bed-side, and no per- 
suasions from Mr. Seldon could induce her to visit Mabel’s 
sick-room. 

^‘If she needed attention, I would go,” she persisted. 
“ But she ought to be helping you, instead of going olf with 
hysterics and he was obliged to leave his darling to the 
care of Betty, and return to his watching in the darkened 
parlor. 

The day and night passed slowly, only varied by the 
arrangements for the funeral, and a hasty visit to Mabel’s 
room, from which he returned with a darker shadow on his 
face. Mabel was better physically, but whether it W’as 
the effect of the opiates, or that she had come to dislike 
him, he could not tell, but she shrank from him with such 
aversion, that it almost broke his heart. 

Still he pitied, and made excuses for her, and loved her 
with undiminished affection. 

The third morning after Mrs. Clifton’s death was ushered 
in by clouds and rain, that would have made a house gloomy 
under the most favorable auspices; but now the presence of 
death and illness- so added to the dreariness, that even the 
doctor was glad to get aw’ay, and Betty was afraid to stir 
from Mr. Seldon’s room, and started at every sound. 

144 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


145 


Margaret opened tlie parlor-door and motioned to Mr. 
Seldon. He came toward her slowly, and looked so pale 
and changed, that she burst into tears, and it was some time 
before she could speak. 

He was usually so kind-hearted and yet he took no notice 
of her tears, but stood patiently waiting her pleasure. 

Mr. Camden is worse,” she said at last, wiping her eyes. 
He started a little, and she drew nearer with a kind of awe 
on her face, as she said in almost a whisper, — “ He will 
never get well, while there is a corpse in the house.” 

“ Heaven help us all ! ” she went off muttering, as he did 
not answer. 

He was not superstitious, but he was reluctantly obliged 
to confess that the funeral must take place as soon as 
possible. 

He decided to make another effort to persuade Mabel to ' 
give him at least an idea of her wishes in regard to the 
funeral, and if she still refused to speak to him, act on his 
own responsibility. 

Mabel was sitting before the fire,- enveloped in a large 
shawl, and yet shivering as if with cold. 

She stopped crying at his entrance, and showed a slight 
degree of interest that made his heart throb with a sen- 
sation of pleasure. “ I have been to see father,” she began 
in a piteous tone, “but he will die; oh, I know he will die!” 
she sobbed. 

Mr. Seldon tried to soothe her ; but her next exclamation 
almost deprived him of power of speech. 

“ I hate this dreadful place, and th^ hour that brought 
me here. Oh, if I had only not come,” and she again re- 
lapsed into passionate grief. 

For the first time, there was a little bitterness in his ^ 
heart; but he reproached himself for what he termed un- 
kindness, and was unaltered in his tenderness. 

13 K 


14G 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


When Mabel was a little composed, he asked her wishes 
in regard to the funeral arrangements ; but she started from 
him in horror, and lost all command over her feelings, and 
before he left her, was in violent hysterics. 

The doctor was summoned, and opiates again admin- 
istered. 

Mabel was bitterly reaping the fruits of her head-strong 
folly. Affliction found her utterly unprepared. 

The first sorrow is always the hardest to bear, and there 
is no fortitude that can enable even those accustomed to a 
life of self-denial to meet with calmness the death of a 
dear friend ; but Mabel’s life had been one of luxury and 
happiness, and to all her natural grief was added remorse; 
the share for her wilfulness had in her mother’s death 
did not lessen the calamity that overwhelmed her with 
horror. 

At four in the afternoon, all that was mortal of Mrs. 
Clifton was borne to the church-yard. 

Mr. Seldon was the only mourner, and so changed had 
he become during the few days that had elapsed since the 
Avedding, tli^t the villagers gathered around the open grave 
could scarcely repress an exclamation as he alighted from 
the carriage. 

“ Earth to earth, dust to dust,” repeated the minister, 
and the clods were heaped on the coffln-lid with a dull, 
heavy sound. 

The sun emerged from the clouds and shone brightly 
on the new-made grave, and a bird’s gay carol rang clear 
and mellow as the voice of a freed spirit. 

But the heavy weight on Mr. Seldon’s heart rested so 
darkly, that no sunshine or music could lighten or clear 'it 
away. 

It seemed as if Margaret was right, and that the shadow 
of an unburied corpse wrought a dreary spell, for the gloom 


MABEL C 1. 1 F T 0 N-. 


147 


was dissipated. Mr. Seldon could breathe freer, and Mabel 
was almost cheerful, and did not shrink from him in such 
terror. She was not affectionate, but seemed glad to have 
him with her, — and when Margaret, whose fear lest he 
should be ill, overcame her aversion and dislike of entering 
Mabel’s presence, insisted that he must have some supper, 
and then try to sleep, Mabel added her own entreaties. 

“ But you will be lonesome,” he urged; and she answered 
so kindly, “that he must think of himself sometimes,” 
that he was emboldened to kiss her; she did not return the 
caress, and he sighed wearily, as he followed Margaret to 
the dining-room. 

It seemed so like old times, as they sat at the little round 
table, before the blazing fire, that Margaret could not help 
saying,— 

“Oh, if we had only been dreaming, and they had never 
come ! ” She was frightened at her temerity and looked hur- 
riedly at Mr. Seldon. He was not angry; but there was 
a weary, thoughtful expression on his face ; he was thinking 
that it would have been better if the last few weeks had 
been a dream, from which they could awaken, and that the 
rosy draught he then welcomed so eagerly was drained to 
the very dregs. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

RE ARY weeks liad elapsed since the funeral. Witli- 



xJ out, it was cold and rainy, and the level, uninterest- 
ing country looked bleak as a desert. The once pretty 
lawn, in front of the house, was shorn of its principal 
beauties. 

The fine old trees had been uprooted during the storm, 
and the summer-house and arbor laid in ruins. 

Winter had set in earlier than usual, and walks or rides 
were out of the question. But the desolation without was 
not to be compared to the gloom that held high carnival 
in the once cheerful house. 

Mabel had never smiled since her mother’s death, and 
rarely spoke. 

There was a hard, cold expression about her compressed 
lips, and a startled look in her'beautiful eyes. 

Mr. Clifton, who had slowly recovered his strength, 
would watch her for hours ; but no scrutiny enabled him to 
read the thoughts hidden under the passionless calm .of her 
marble-like face. v 

Her marriage was a mystery, and the conduct of the 
newly wedded pair still more strange and inexplicable. 

His wife had spoken of Mabel’s love for Mr, Seldon, but 
he looked in vain for any indication of even interest. Mr. 
Seldon’s sad, white face and listlessness told of some secret 
unhappiness, and although he evidently loved Mabel with 
a kind of idolatry, he never spoke to her, except when it 
was unavoidable. There was reserve in their manner, ljut 
no unkindness, and it was evident they were mutually mis- 


erable. 


148 - 


3*1 ABEL CLIFTON. 


149 


In his weakness and sorrow, Mr. Clifton turned to Mabel 
as his only comfort, and the desolate village was more in- 
viting than to wander over the world, without interests or 
ties. 

It was a trial to leave his beautiful daughter to bury 
her accomplishments in a place so unsuited to her talents 
and elegance. But although his pride and ambition pre- 
vented his ever feeling reconciled to a marriage that 
brought to Mabel so obscure a destiny, he did not for an 
instant think of proposing to take her with him. Her 
place was with the husband she had chosen, whether her 
choice brought joy or misery. 

It was only the middle of the afternoon, but the day had 
already seemed interminably long. Mabel had been stand- 
ing by the window for more than an hour — motionless as 
a statue — and Mr. Clifton was watching her from the fire- 
side, where he had been vainly trying to read. 

She turned suddenly, and game forward with a look of 
determination on her face, as she said abruptly, — 

“You spoke this morning about going away; are you 
decided when to start ? ” 

Her father paused before he answered, and then spoke 
in a nervous, hesitating way. He was much altered from 
the firm, unyielding man he had once been. 

“ I am sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey. 
I suppose there is no use to delay. It was only on your 
account I hesitated.” 

“ Will you go to-morrow ? ” Mabel said eagerly, and a 
flush of pleasure lighted up her face as he assented. 

Surprised and hurt that she should wish him gone, and 
too proud to make any comment, he resumed his book, 
never once glancing toward her, as she stood before him in 
silence. 

At last she turned and left the room, and he felt with 


lo * 


150 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


bitterness that there was no longer any tie to bind him to 
life. Of Beatrice he would not think. 

Mabel walked slowly and reluctantly toward the par- 
lor. She had not entered it since the^ night her mother 
died, and her courage almost deserted her as she crossed 
the threshold. 

Margaret was seated, with her knitting lying idly in her 
lap, and her eyes fixed mc^ imfully on Mr. Seldon. He 
did not observe her scrutiny, 6x notice Mabel as she stood 
beside him. 

His head was bent dejectedly, and there were threads of 
silver among his glossy hair. A few weeks had worked 
the change of years. Mabel may have felt some compunc' 
tion as she stood watching him in silence ; but if so, it did 
not alter her purpose. 

Margaret rose and left the room. Mabel had not spoken 
to him, except in her father’s presence, since the evening 
of his return from the funeral. 

He must have known of her presence, although he did 
not look at her until she laid her hand lightly on his arm. 
There was nothing of hope in his face as he turned toward 
her, and she said, abruptly, — 

‘‘ I am going with my father.” 

A blush of shame flushed her cheek as he ro^e suddenly, 
and pushing her hand from his arm, confronted her ; and 
her voice faltered as she continued, “ We will be happier 
separated ; and I loathe and detest this place so much, 
that death 'would be preferable to living here. 

“ W e are not suited, in any respect. To love me, you would 
be obliged to give up all tliat association has made dear, 
and I am not worth the sacrifice.” The sadness in her 
tone, as she pronounced the last words, changed to a kind 
of anger, and she said passionately, — 

don’t know where my pride is that I tell you, but 


MABEL CLIFTOX. 



x 

151 


though I despise myself for my decision, nothing will in- 
duce me to change it. I will leave you to-morrow, and 
never return ! ” 

Still he did not answer, and she drew near him suddenly 
and threw her arms around him with a look of mournful 
fondness. 

“ It is not that I do not like you — do not love you — ” 

He looked in her face, love struggling with disdain, and 
said, half scornfully, — 

“ Your love must be very strong, indeed 

“ Oh, if I could only be good,’’ she murmured, clinging 
to him passionately. “ I love you, and yet, if I should 
stay, I would make you miserable ! — 

“ Love is a very small item in our lives,” she went on 
after a little pause. “ You will soon forget me, and be as 
happy as if we had never met.” 

“And you?” he said, speaking like one in a dream. A 
gleam of anger and indecision crossed her face as she 
thought bitterly, that her tampering with destiny was not 
to be so easily forgiven. 

Though she left her husband, the tie could not be severed 
until death broke the band. In her anxiety to be free, she 
had not realized that it would only be in appearance. 

Her ambitious dreams could never be realized. She 
hesitated, but only for an instant. Love could not make 
her happy; if there were no triumphs left for her in the 
great world she so longed to enter, there would be at least 
change. 

The bare thought of resuming her old life, made her 
giddy with an exultation she could scarcely repress; and 
, every trace of irritation vanished. 

Mr. Seldon was not surprised : he had been .expecting 
each day that she would come and tell him what she now 
told. 


152 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


Tliere was more affection in her manner than he expected, 
but he was not deceived by it. Suspense was ended. 
He could not be more misera.ble than he had been during 
the last few weeks, and he looked up wearily, — 

Have you anything more to say to me? ” 

“You consent, then, to a separation,” she said, eagerly, 
and with a joy she did not attempt to conceal. 

“ Of course, if you wish it,” he answered in the same 
weary maimer as if it was all a tiresome dream. 

“And may I tell father it is our mutual decision ?” she 
said, following him to the sofa. He turned fiercely, like a 
lion at bay, — 

“ Say what you please, only leave me ! I am only mortal, 
and I can bear no more now.” His eyes flashed, and there 
was a wildness in his face that struck her with a sudden 
terror, and she left the room without another word. 

Margaret came in softly after a while ; Mr. Seldon turned 
to her piteously. 

“ O Margaret ! my "dear old friend, the dream is almost 
over; they are going soon.” She turned very pale, but sat 
down beside him in silence, and smoothed his hair as she 
used \\hen he was a little boy and came to her with his 
childish griefs. He then laid his head on her lap with 
the old childish abandon. At last he said, with a strange 
calmness — “ Do you believe in broken hearts, Marga- 
ret? — because, if mine is not broken, I must be going 
mad ! ” 

Margaret trembled violently, but she still smoothed his 
hair and talked to him soothingly, and he grew more com- 
posed, although the least sound made him tremble as if in 
an ague-fit. 

He had lain so quietly, that she thought he had found 
forgetfulness in sleep ; but at the sound of the tea-bell he 
raised his face, and although it was so dark she could not 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


163 


see the expression, yet his tone reassured her. It was calm 
and decided. , 

“Margaret, I would rather not meet any one just now. 
You may bring me some strong coffee. If Mr. Camden 
wishes to see me, I will go to his room, where he can see 
me alone.’’ 

Margaret thought, with a gush of happy tears, “ He will 
bear it now, — the danger is past.” 




CHAPTEE XXIV. 

II /r ABEL ran liglitly up .the stairs leading to her father’s 
111. room, too happy at the success of her scheme to give 
a thought to Mr. Seldon in his sorrow, or to tremble at the 
deliberate sin she would commit in leaving her husband. 
Under the most cheerful auspices she would have repented 
of a marriage that could gratify neither her ambition nor 
love of admiration. 

The fascination Mr. Seldon exerted was a transient feeling, 
never strong enough to enable her to make any sacrifice, 
however necessary to his happiness. 

She Avould have tired of her monotonous life, even had 
there not been sufficient trouble to give her a distaste and 
loathing for her new home. 

Her father’s return, by recalling the wealth and pomp 
that once surrounded her, made her marriage seem such a 
dreadful mesalliance, that she considered any plan excus- 
able by which she might be free. 

Her real name was still unknown to Mr. Seldon, and her 
marriage could easily be kept a secret. It was only known 
to her father, whose pride revolted from it. If any person 
she had ever known should read the marriage notice of 
Mabel Camden and Willard Seldon, what clue would it > 
give them ? — none, she was convinced. 

It was almost impossible the world should by any chance 
stumble upon that knowledge. 

Hay after day, during her fatlier’s convalescence, did she 
think over and mature her plan. Mr. Seldon’s consent 
was alone necessary, and his refusal her only fear; she knew 

» 164 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


155 


that his will w’as stronger than her own, if once roused, 
and she had sometimes trembled for her power, even when 
she managed him most skilfully. 

Flushed with the triumph of success, and wild with de- 
light, she flung open the door of her fathers room, and 
stood before him, radiant and beautiful, so unlike the pale, 
spiritless automaton she had been for weeks ; but he was 
too astonished to speak, and looked at her inquiringly. She 
was too eager to tell him the joyful news at first, and after 
a minute’s hesitation she stood beside him and drew his 
face down to hers. 

It was a caress she had not offered her stately father 
since she was a child ; but her words left him no room for 
amazement at her singular behavior. 

“ Papa, I am going with you to-morrow, and we will 
forget this dreadful place, and be so happy.” 

“And your husband?” he faltered, scarcely knowing 
whether to be pleased at the prospect, and yet glad that 
Mabel was not destitute of filial affection. 

“Mr. Seldon,” she answered coldly, “remains here; we 
have separated.” There was a joyous cadence in the tone 
with which she pronounced the words. But the smile faded 
as her father rose sternly and pushed her from him. 

Even in his anger he noticed the door was ajar; he 
closed and locked it. 

Mabel still knelt; she would have caught his hands im- 
ploringly, but his face restrained her. 

“ Miserable girl ! have you so little heart that you can 
desert the man who offered you an asylum when you were 
destitute ; who married you under circumstances so suspi- 
cious, that, had he been less honorable — ” He did not finish 
the sentence, but went on in a softer tone, Have you no 
gratitude for his kindness to^your mother? He soothed her 
last hours; watched over her, night after night, when all 


156 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


was over ; while her husband and daughter were too miser- 
ably weak to pay the last rites or to see her buried. 

“All this he did, and his kindness to me has been un- 
ceasing. What right have we to such kindness ? — mere 
strangers, our very names unknown, — what return have 
you made him,' answer me, wretched girl! — and now^ you 
desert him.” 

“Oh, father! have mercy,” she gasped, imploringly 
clinging to him, while he tried in vain to release himself 
from her grasp. 

“ Do not cast me off for my mother’s sake; hear me.” 

He looked at her then, and her pale face smote him. 
He thought with a sudden revulsion of feeling of her motlfer, 
as she pleaded wdth him for her only child, when the death- 
chill Avas in the trembling hand that tried to clasp his 
tenderly. 

He could not be angry with her now, — she knelt before 
him — his proud, beautiful daughter, who had so wrecked 
her life and happiness. He sank into a chair and held out 
his hands to her. He could not speak the forgiveness that 
softened his heart ; but still she knelt and raised her white, 
imploring face. 

“Father, I never knelt before to mortal man, scarcely 
to my God ; but I will never rise until you promise to 
take me with you, — I wdll die at your feet!” 

Mr. Clifton groaned. 

“Are you then so miserable, my poor child ? ” ^ 

“ You cannot imagine all I have endured in this dread- 
ful place,” she said ; “ I never want to think of it again. 
Even insult I have received — not from Mr. Seldon,” she 
added with atwdnge of remorse, as her father’s brow dark- 
^ened, — “ but from his dependant — that Margaret. To 
think of a Clifton making a companion of such a person,” 
she said proudly, and then w^ent on with flashing eyes, “Is 
this a position for your daughter? jiist think of it ! ” 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


157 


He leaned and took her in his arms; “My poor, un- 
happy child, what could have induced you to take such a 
step ? Oh, it maddens me to think of it ! ” and he released 
her and walked the room with hasty strides. 

She felt the day was almost won, and her heart beat as 
exultingly as if there was no agony on her father’s face. 
She did not heed that in the silent room below the almost 
broken heart of her victim was quivering as if with a 
death-struggle, or reflect that her sin and its consequences 
were being recorded by the inexorable angel, whose pen 
notes with fearful exactness the sins we can commit lightly 
and, alas ! so easily forget. 

Mr. Clifton came to her at last; his face was very 
solemn, so solemn she felt a thrill of apprehension; but 
his words reassured her. 

“My dear child, this is a dreadful decision you have 
made ! I cannot resist your pleadings, or cast you from me; 
but I must w^arn you of the consequences of this step. 

“ It may seem ended after the present struggle is past, 
and you have left this place forever ; but if you are to 
blame, and I cannot but feel you are, in a measure, you 
will some day repent of it with a bitterness and agony 
this parting can give you no conception of. 

“ We can never sin without enduring the penalty. O 
Mabel, let me advise you ! yOur marriage was indiscreet, 
it disappointed all my ambitious hopes for you; but still, 
it should not be cancelled. Mr. Seldon is a good man; you 
cannot but respect him, and this life is but dreary and un- 
satisfactory, at the best ; w^e never realize the future that is 
so glowing with hope, as we look forward ; but, my dear 
child, it is better to suffer everything of bitterness this wnrld 
can give, than for one day or hour to feel remorse.” He 
covered his face and was silent. Mabel could not but feel 
iiupressed with his earnestness, but her heart was as impe- 
14 


158 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


rious as if it had been adamant. “As I said before, I would 
die sooner than remain with Mr. Seldon ; besides,” she 
added bitterly, “ it is his wish that w^e should separate, he 
bade me tell you so; shall I go to him and humbly beg 
him to receive a poor unfortunate, whose father casts her 
from him ? ” 

Mr. Clifton’s brow flushed proudly. “Has he dared to 
so insult you ? he wdll find you are not alone or unpro- 
tected ; ” but she caught his arm ; “ Dear papa, he oflered 
me no insult: it w^as I w^ho proposed leaving him ; w^e are 
entirely unsuited to each other; we are mutually w^eary.” 

Her father stooped and kissed her fondly, “I am only 
too glad to have you back, my dear daughter, for you are 
all I have to love or care for. I never dreamed that Mr. 
Seldon could have given you up wdllingly. 

“That circumstance alters the whole affair; you should 
have told me sooner. 

“You must try to sleep now. I will make all necessary 
arrangements wdth Mr. Seldon ; you need not even see him 
again. 

“What is it, Mabel?” he said, as she still lingered. 

“Perhaps you had better not see Mr. Seldon,” she fal- 
tered. But her father, with his old decided manner, opened 
the door of her room and said “ Good night,” and she had 
no alternative but to obey, although her heart sank at the 
prospect of a meeting between those two. 

Although she told her father the truth wdien she assured 
him that Mr. Seldon had consented to the separation, yet she 
knew in her inmost heart that he was not willing — that he 
w^ould die for her sake without a murmur ; and she was 
also conscious that her father, knowing the true state of 
affairs, would be inflexible in w^hat he thought right. 

She knew she was committing a deadly sin, and shuddered 
with a kind of secret terror, but she w’ould not relent. If 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


159 


she only could see Mr. Seldon alone before his interview 
with her father. She was afraid to meet him, but her old 
power must be regained, and he must keep up the impres- 
sion she had given her father, that it was the wish of both 
to separate forever. 

The tea-bell rang at last ; she listened with beating heart 
for her father to leave the room. His steps paused at the^ 
door. “Mabel, will you have some supper sent up?” 

“ No, father,” she answered in great agitation and fear, 
lest he might suspect something from her tone. 

Her only hope of seeing Mr. Seldon was while her father 
was down stairs. Margaret would take her place at the 
table, and Mr. Seldon, she felt sure, would remain in the 
parlor. 

After minutes of expectation that seemed hours, her 
father left the room, and she stole noiselessly and peeped 
over the balusters. Margaret opened the parlor-door, and 
after pausing a moment, followed Mr. Clifton to the dining- 
room. 

Nothing could have happened more to her liking, and yet 
she trembled so, she could scarcely descend the staircase, 
and her very heart stood still as she laid her hand on the 
door-handle. She had wronged Mr. Seldon, and dreaded 
to meet him. She was wicked and selfish, but not w’holly 
depraved, for she felt a sense of humiliation at entering his 
presence. The sudden pushing back of a chair in the din- 
ing-room startled her with a new terror, but no one came, 
and with a resolution that it had seemed impossible to at- 
tain but a moment before, she entered the room. 

A deadly faintness crept over her frame as she closed 
the door. 

She v/as alone with the man she had so injured — in the 
pretty room so bright and cheerful the night she first en- 
tered it, now darkened with memories that would rest for- 


160 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


ever like heavy shadows. Death had been there since that 
evening. Visible through the gloom, only broken by the 
firelight as it flashed with an occasional lurid gleam, was 
the velvet-cushioned chair in which she had seen her 
mother last. The solemn beauty of that face would haunt 
her through life. There too, was the sofa on which she 
had lain during silent days and nights, with the changeless 
calm of her look unaltered. 

Mable saw the dark outline of a figure, and she could 
not but think of the sorrow that had changed Mr. Seldon, 
so strong and vigorous when she first knew him, to the list- 
less person he now was. She remembered that he had 
watched with ceaseless tenderness during the hours when 
the death-angel hovered there ; alone he had kept his dreary 
vigils, alone he had followed her mother to the grave ; and 
now, wfith his life blighted, and no hope that could cheer 
the future, she would leave him alone — alone through life. 
There was but one way in which the shadow could be lifted 
from his destiny — her death. The thought came to her 
like a palsy stroke, and she would have shrieked in terror, 
had not her white lips refused to utter a sound. In her 
agony she staggered forward and caught at something to 
save herself from falling. The fire flashed mockingly, — it 
was the chair in which her mother died. 

She pushed it from her with a frantic gesture, and at the 
same instant the door opened and Margaret entered, and 
Mr. Seldon, roused from the apathy that had in mercy pre- 
served him from the full realization of his despair, started 
from the sofa. 

His eyes were fixed on Mabel with a wild, startled ex- ' 
pressid'n^ and he shrank back as if she. were a spectre. 
Well might he have deemed her such, for the white wrap- 
23er that enveloped her form was not more colorless than 
her face and lips, and her dishevelled hair and eager eyes 
gave her an unearthly wildness. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


161 


Margaret looked from one to the other ith trembling 
eagerness, and then with a wild cry, that rang through the 
stillness like a dismal wail, clasped Mr. Seldon’s hands and 
tried to drag him away. 

He did not seem to see her, but gazed fixedly at Mabel, 
who, clinging to the mantel for support, turned her face 
toward him as if with a fascination. The silence that 
followed was brokeii by an exclamation from Mr. Clifton, 
W’hose entrance had been unnoticed. 

His face was pale with anger, and he caught Mabel 
by the hand, and dragging her forward, confronted Mr. 
Seldon. 

His lips were compressed with a decision that made 
Mabel tremble, and she turned to Mr. Seldon the appealing, 
trustful look she gave him the night they first met. It 
stilled the wild tumult that had drawn him to the verge 
of madness, — he only felt now, that he would follow the 
bidding of those mournfully beautiful eyes unflinchingly. 

Mr. Clifton’s voice was firm and clear, and Margaret 
raised her face to listen. 

“ It is too late now to inquire into the unhappy difficulty 
between you two, who have sworn most solemnly to love 
each other through life, and after so short a period of time 
wish to cancel your vows. I have only to ask, Mr. Seldon, 
if it is your wish that the separation should take place? ” 

Mr. Seldon, with his eyes fixed on Mabel’s face, after a 
minute of irresolution answered steadily, — 

“ It is my wish ! ” 

Mabel’s heart gave a sudden throb, and a rich color 
flooded her cheeks, but her beautiful eyes never wavered 
in their steadfast hold of her victim. 

Mr. Clifton gave a sigh of relief, and resumed in the same 
solemn manner, — “ There is no need of a divorce, as your 
wish for separation is mutual. I should much prefer 
14 * ^ 


162 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


there should be none at present — it is a terrible ordeal” 
and he shuddered — “a needless exposure, and in this case 
I fear it would be impossible to obtain one. After three 
years you will be able to take any measures you see proper.” 

Mr. Seldon stirred uneasily, as if each word was a poi- 
soned dart, and Mr. Clifton, with a look of pain on his f^ce, 
attempted to lead IMabel from the room. 

Mr. Seldon sprang forward and placed himself between 
them. 

I must see her alone once more, — I will give her up for- 
ever, but you surely will not grudge me one little moment 
of joy — one last farewell. His manner was calm and 
gentlemanly, though his words were eager and vehement, 
and Mr. Clifton, after a moment’s hesitation, left the room, 
motioning Margaret to follow him. She shook her head 
and retained her seat. 

Mr. Seldon stood motionless, with his eager, mournful 
eyes fixed on Mabel’s fiice, — he did not speak or stir. It 
Avas not love in his face — it w\as not anger, — Mabel could 
not tell what it meant. Had she been a piece of marble 
formed by some sculptor’s hand, he could not have looked 
at her more curiously or wonderingly. At last he com- 
menced in a broken voice : 

“ So Phidias looked his last at the beautiful statue fash- 
ioned by his own hands. Hay after day had he knelt, 
with a love that -would have softened anything less hard ; 
but the lips never smiled on him, the fingers never clasped 
his tenderly. Was it any marvel his heart broke? Even 
the statue must have felt pity, — senseless marble that it 
was, — but you feel none, Mabel, though I should die at 
your feet, as the poor artist died.” He flung himself before 
her, and clasping her hands, raised his face with a look of 
love and devotion that thrilled her very soul. 

His graceful head, with its wealth of dark hair, was 


MABEL CLIFTOX. 


163 


thrown back, and his beautifully chiselled features were 
clearly defined, as the softened light fell on them. His tone 
never altered from its calm, mournfuL cadence. — “I can 
even kneel to you, Mabel, I love you so — I gave you up 
when there was not a pulse that did not beat for you. I 
coflld die for you gladly, Mabel, but if you will come back 
to me, dearest, I will live for you, and love you as you can 
never be loved again, — only tell me that at some future 
day, when I have gained wealth and fame, I may claim 
you, and I wdll w’ork so proudly, with your face to inspire 
me. I can dare everything, Mabel ; do not turn from me,’* 
and he clasped her hands more tightly, as she tried to 
release herself. She felt her decision faltering ; she could 
not trust herself to remain longer. Those strong fingers, 
that could have crushed her delicate roseate palm, were 
strangely w^eak, for she tore her own awmy, and w’ith a 
shriek of agony, freed herself from the trembling arms 
that "would still have held her, and hurried from the room. 
“ Mabel, my life, come back ! ” wms called falteringly ; — she 
did not heed ; she did not even turn for one last look. 

Alas ! hers was a dearly bought victory, and when she 
threw herself on the bed, after reaching her room, she w^as 
almost as exhausted and senseless as the rigid form over 
which Margaret bent so fondly, and tried so despairingly 
to restore to consciousness. 

Hours passed ; the moon rose and flooded Mabel’s cham- 
ber with its silvery light, but she shivered and turned 
aw'ay. 

“ Oh, if it were only morning ! ” she moaned. Her heart 
w^as touched at last. She could not shut out the tender 
eyes that looked into hers so fondly, could not deafen her 
ear to the pleading tones. 

Over and over again, as if it w^ere some panorama pass- 
ing before lier aching vision, w^as enacted that last scone 


164 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


with her husband, — not a glance omitted, or a tone for- 
gotten. 

She did not feel grief at the parting ; she did long to see 
him yet once again. Could Lethe’s cup have been ofiered 
her, how gladly would she have welcomed the draught ! 

• Her heart was not less hard, but still Memory the avenger 
painted the scene, and she could not turn away. 

The dreadful hours, how slowly they passed — one — two 
— three — four — only four! — and now, thank Heaven I 
day is dawning at last. 

She heard her father’s step, in the next room, with a 
transport of relief. But his words were the knell of hope. 

“We do not start till eight.” Four more weary hours 
to be gotten over. It was unendurable. She saw on the 
mantel a little vial of a sleeping potion. She drained it 
to the dregs, scarcely caring even for death, in her desire 
to rid herself of the haunting memories that seemed goad- 
ing her to distraction. 




CHAPTEE XXVL 


M abel was sitting in her room, equipped for the jour- 
ney. The trunks were already gone, and in fifteen 
minutes, at the latest, she would leave forever a place so 
hateful to her that it seemed she could not breathe freely, 
until -she was away. The very atmosphere was stifling. 
Her father had not returned from a farewell visit to his 
wife’s grave. Mabel did not offer to accompany him. 
The gloom of Mr. Seldon’s house she thought preferable 
to a sight of the desolate churchyard, until after her 
father’s departure, and then the silence, and the memories, 
and the morbid musings, that even the daylight could not 
banish, were so bitter, that she repented her decision. 

Added to the gloom and silence, and the bitter mem- 
ories, was the fear of another interview with Mr. Seldon. 
The opening of a door, or the sound of a footstep, made 
her start in terror. There was a half-smothered feeling 
that rose continually in her heart — a tenderness for the 
man whose life she had blighted. Cold as she was, and 
indifferent to the feelings of others, his sorrow and love 
were not altogether lost. She had triumphed over her own 
weakness, but it was so hard a struggle, that she shud- 
dered to think how nearly she had yielded. Nothing 
would induce her to go through another such a scene. ^ 

The minutes passed slowly ; her trial was almost at an 
end, wEen a step at the door thrilleddier with agony. There 
w^as no hope of escape ; she must meet him ; but anger 
now mingled with the pitying tenderness that struggled for 
mastery. 


165 


166 


MABEL CLIFTpX. 

“ What right had he to torment her with his pertinacity?” 
she thought, resentfully, and with more firmness than she 
had hoped to attain. She rose haughtily and opened the 
door, before which the footsteps had paused, irresolutely. 
It was not Mr. Seldon who confronted her, but Margaret ; 
not the hale, vigorous Margaret who had welcomed her 
the night of her arrival, but a pale, haggard woman, bent 
as if with age, and trembling with excitement. 

Mabel staggered back with surprise, and a kind of vague 
terror that left no room for hateur. She could not ask 
what she wanted, or why she came now, when she had 
avoided her so long. Margaret spoke at last, in a tone of 
heart-broken entreaty. 

“ I never thought to speak to you again, much less to 
ask anything of you, but I would kneel, and ask you to 
sta)^ with us ; to comfort Mr. Seldon ; to go to him now. 
He begs to see you so piteously.” The old woman caught 
her dress in her earnestness, and Mabel did not stir or 
answer. She heard the words, but all she was conscious 
of, was listening for the sound of wheels. 

Fatima, with the horror of a dreadful death threatening 
her, could not have w’aited more eagerly for the rescue, 
than did Mabel for the wheels that would bear her away. 

Margaret thought her relenting, and redoubled her en- 
treaties. 

“ More than life depends on your return — I will tell 
you,” and her voice lowered, and she almost whispered, 
‘‘ He was thrown from a horse when a little boy,” — she 
looked around, as if fearful there might be listeners, — 
“ any excitement may make him raving mad ; just think 
of it! You will not bring such a doom to him? 

“He loves you so well,” — she would have taken her 
hand, but Mabel shrank from her. Her face was ghastly, 
but unrelenting and cold in its expression. Just then 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


167 


wheels were distinctly heard, and she started eagerly for- 
ward. Margaret threw herself before her and clutched at 
her dress. Fright gave Mabel strength, and she tore her- 
self from her grasp, and fled down the stairs. 

Margaret fell to the floor, and sobbed aloud, but Mabel 
never, paused. 

The hall-door was thrown open, and she could see her 
father at the gate. She hurried along breathlessly. If she 
could only pass the parlor-door 1 ” She reached it, but her 
dress became entangled in a hat-rack that she came in con- 
tact with, in her desire to avoid the parlor. Involuntarily 
she uttered an exclamation, and frantically stooped to ex- 
tricate herself. There w'as the sound of a rapid step 
crossing the floor ; -with a wrench that brought away part 
of the oak carvings, she was free ; but Mr. Seldon was 
standing beside her, pale and haggard, his eyes blood-shot, 
and his hair dishevelled. For a minute she was power- 
less ; had her life been the sacrifice, she could not have 
moved, and her eyes turned to him with a kind of fasci- 
nation. 

His face grew calm, and he stretched out his arms to her. 
with a smile. “ Mabel, my darling, I knew you would 
come back to me ; months and years I have waited, but I 
see you at last, my sweet love ! ” 

“You have not been happy either ; your cheek is pale, 
and your beautiful eyes have a sad, wearied expression.” 

“ What ails you, my darling ? ” he said, with an anxious 
shadow flitting across the loving serenity of his face, as he 
advanced toward her, smiling and holding out his arms. 

What was she to do — how escape; he was so near her 
now, that she could touch him ; farther she shrunk as h^ 
advanced, his brow growing darker, and an angry flush 
rising to his cheek. Step by step she retreated till she 
reached the hall-door, and turning suddenly, she sprang 


168 MABEL CLIFTON. 

out and ran down the path to the carriage, — she did not 
stop to see if she was being pursued. 

You are late, Mabel,” said her father, holding the car- 
riage-door open. He had scarcely noticed her singular beha- 
vior, he was so absorbed in sad thoughts, but he started at 
the sight of her ghastly face. 

“ Oh, for the love of Heaven, let us start ! ” she said, fran- 
tically — “don’t stop to ask me ! ” — and she wrung her hands 
convulsively ; her white, scared face was turned toward the 
house she had quitted, and there was such terror in the 
expression, that her father hesitated not an instant in obey- 
ing, and with a hasty word to the driver, seated himself 
beside her, and they dashed on so rapidly, that Mabel only 
caught a glimpse of Mr. Seldon hurrying down the path ; 
but a scream from Margaret rung out wildly, and was heard 
above the crash of the wheels. Mabel crouched down in 
the bottom of the carriage and buried her face in the 
cushions. Her father was alarmed at her extreme agitation, 
and talked to her soothingly. 

She seemed almost afraid of him, and would only speak 
to beg him to have the driver go faster. After some time 
she grew more composed, and her father prevailed upon her 
to sit beside him and lay her head on his shoulder ; she 
was still nervous, and would start at every sound, and cling 
to him convulsively. 

“ We are nearly to the station, Mabel,” he said, as they 
stopped to change horses. “ It is only ten miles from here. 
Let me get you a cup of tea, it will strengthen you ; ” but 
she almost shrieked, as she tried to draw him back. 

He spoke almost sternly. “ Mabel, what is the meaning of 
this strange behavior? a child would show more courage 
and decision than you have exhibited. I have borne with 
you in silence, because I could not help pitying your sor- 
row, but this is a wicked indulgence.” 


MABEL CLIFTON. 7 


169 


% 


She raised her face to his. There was no anger in it, 
only terror, and her eyes wandered fearfully, as if in search 
of some frightful object. 

“ Father,” she said, in so low a tone that he bent his 
head to listen, “ Mr. Seldon is perfectly insane. Oh, we 
must not lose a moment ; let us start now, dearest father.” 
Mr. Clifton’s horror was inexpressible, and he shuddered to 
think of his daughter’s danger. 

His anxiety to reach the station was now as great as her 
own, although his manner was quiet and composed. 

Mabel lost a portion of the deadly terror that had 
almost maddened her, during the journey, and trusted im- 
plicitly to his judgment. 

“ You need not fear, Mabel,” he said kindly ; “ there is no 
clue by which he can trace us — if he could even follow us, 
which is highly improbable. 

Our very name unknown, and our destination, we could " 
elude him if his life was spent in search.” After a long in- 
terval of silence, he said, tenderly, — “You have passed 
through a terrible ordeal, but it is ended and you must 
forget it. 

“ Let his name and all the incidents of the last month rest, 
as if it were some fearful dream, never to be spoken of 
again by either of us. Shall it be so," my child ? ” She 
pressed his hand in assent, and they sat in utter silence 
until the driver reined in his steaming horses beside the 
snorting, screaming engine, that was to bear them away. 

15 


CHAPTEK XXVII. 

M e. SELDOX stood like one petrified, watching Mabel’s 
flight. What could she mean, — after coming back to 
him, to desert him so cruelly ? — it was impossible that 
she was really going, — and yet it must be. She entered 
the carriage, and then his mind was all chaos. There was a 
terrible doubt as to whether she had really returned, and 
yet had she not been with him a minute before ? 

He groaned and covered his eyes ; but the sound of 
wheels roused him to the reality that she was leaving him ; 
# w^hatever was the truth in the confused past, this was not 
a dream. She was going forever. Quick as lightning this 
passed through his troubled mind, and springing forward, he 
started in pursuit. 

“ He would drag her from the carriage ; she was his bride, 
and no earthly power should wrest her from him.” He 
waved his arms wildly, but he could not call, and a kind 
of palsy seized his trembling frame. 

Had the carriage gone, or was it suddenly night ? Every-, 
thing faded from his vision, and with an agony that was 
like a death-stroke he fell heavily to the ground. Mar- 
garet’s shrieks, as she bent over him, soon brought a score 
of the villagers, who proflTered their assistance and kindest 
sympathy. 

They were attached to Margaret, but Mr. Seldon had 
long been their pride and delight, — the rich man of the 
village and the benefactor of all. 

He lay before them cold and senseless, and to all appear- 

170 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


171 


ances dead, but the doctor, who soon arrived, said life was 
not yet extinct, and they bore him tenderly to the house. 
They waited with a natural curiosity for his beautiful wife, 
but the day passed and there was no sign of her presence. 
She was gone forever from the silent room, which gave no 
token of the gloom she brought. She had passed away like 
a fearfully beautiful vision, and the wonder as to “ who she 
could have been and w'hy she had gone,” was speculated 
upon for months, and then a sudden flood of prosperity 
changed the village into a busy, growing town, and other 
wonders and interests so usurped the place of the mystery 
of Mr. Seldon and his bride, that the strange occurrences 
were forgotten ; and when, years after, Mrs. Camden’s remains 
w^ere removed from the church-yard to the family vault in 
her native town, it excited no interest and scarcely elicited 
a remark. 

But, at the time, their love for Mr. Seldon wms not suf- 
ficient to restrain their curiosity, and Margaret was tor-' 
tured with questions, put in every variety of ingenious 
skill, but to no purpose ; all she would say was, that “Mrs. 
Seldon went with her father.” 

As to whither they had gone, or when they would return, 
her only answer was, “ she did not know.” 

Betty was more communicative, and retailed her store 
of gossip with such gusto, that she was quite a popular 
character. 

Mr. Seldon lay week after week, Margaret watching him 
unweariedly. He recovered, after a time, but he was so 
listless and uninterested, that he was more like a pale 
phantom than a living man. He did not even seem to 
think, for his face was calm and placid. 

The doctor and a. few of his friends tried for a long time 
to amuse and interest him, but the faint smile with which 
he sometimes essayed to repay their efibrts was so forced. 


172 


MABEL CLIFTOX. 


that it was more disheartening than even his weary air of 
listlessness. One by one they gradually dropped away, tired 
of an acquaintance that brought no pleasure to themselves 
and no comfort to their friend ; and Margaret was his sole 
companion. 

He did not seem to miss them. It was the old life 
again. The presence that had invaded the quiet of their 
life was gone. Her name was never mentioned ; no article 
she had worn was preserved. 

The strangers were gone, as Margaret had once hoped. 
The very grave in the church-yard was heaped high with 
snow, as if there was no trace to be left. 

But, alas! she could not think it a dream, — the events 
of those few weeks lingered like heavy shadows that would 
forever obscure the sunlight. 

The dreary winter passed, — the monotonous calm un- 
broken, — and spring came, with its sunshine and flowers. 

Mr. Seldon scarcely noted the change. Margaret once 
lured him to the rocks crowned with laurel, now in blos- 
som, but he turned away with a sigh : “ There is no resur- 
rection for the heart, Margaret; spring only makes the 
contrast more severe. I like wdnter better.” 

It was his first allusion to his grief, and sad as his words 
were, they gave poor Margaret comfort. 

The first visit he made w'as to Mrs. Camden’s grave, 
which he decorated with flowers. It was his first interest, 
and Margaret became more hopeful each day. 

One afternoon he was about to start for his usual walk. 
Upon opening the gate, he was accosted by a portly, smil- 
ing gentleman, who, finding his name was Seldon, intro- 
duced himself with an air of easy assurance. His name 
was Bennett. 

Mr. Seldon had never heard the name before, and he 
felt the slightest possible degree of wonder as to his busi- 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


173 


ness. Mr. Bennett commenced in a pleasant strain of con- 
versation, but gave no clue to liis object until, upon finding 
Mr. Seldon’s name was Willard, his good-natured face wore 
such an expression of delight, that an expectant flush rose 
to Mr. Seldon’s cheek, and he trembled with the eagerness 
of undefined hope. 

Margaret’s surprise, at seeing him return with a stran- 
ger, was unbounded, and, to judge from her pallid face, 
not pleasurable. Strangers had caused all their misery, 
and she dreaded lest Mabel might return, or summon Mr. 
Seldon. 

She opened the parlor-shutters, not very quickly or easily. 
Mr. Bennett, oflering to assist her, noticed with surprise her 
agitated manner. As soon as ‘ she left the room, he plied 
Mr. Seldon with a series of questions, and with a most 
business-like air. 

Mr. Seldon’s heart sank, and the transient hope was* 
extinguished. He felt that researches into the past history 
of his parents and grandparents could portend no tidings 
from the o-nly person who had power to interest him. 

Mr. Bennett, on the contrary, grew each moment more 
animated, and rubbed his hands delightedly, until at last, 
upon Mr. Seldon’s producing a genealogical tree, his elation 
reached such a pitch, that he caught his hand and con- 
gratulated him in the most excited manner. 

Mr. Seldon was fairly roused from his apathy, and sur- 
veyed him with astonishment. After a while the stranger, 
recalled to his senses, seated himself close to Mr. Seldon’s 
side, and pointed to a conspicuous name on the family tree, 
“ Sir Willard Seldon, Earl of Bichland.” 

Well,” said Mr. Seldon, “he was my grandfather’s 
brother.” 

“ Your grandfather’s brother ! ” echoed Mr. Bennett, rub- 
bing his hands. 

15 * 


174 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


“ Is there aDything so surprisiog in that circumstance/’ 
said Mr. Seldon, with some hauteur. 

“ Not very surprising,” retorted the stranger, “ but it is 
not every one who can claim so near a connection to one 
of the English nobility. However, it is time that I explain 
my errand, and if you then insist upon an apology for my 
numerous questions, I shall endeavor to satisfy you.” Mr. 
Seldon bowed stiffly, and, with a sober business air, he re- 
-sumed: “Your grandfather was the youngest brother of 
Lord Kichland, and emigrated to the United States in 
consequence of some very unpleasant circumstances. He 
married, and your father was the only son ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“He visited England? 

“Yes,” interrupted Mr. Seldon, “in order to gratify my 
grandfather’s desire for a reconciliation ; but he was treated 
with such disdain by his haughty relatives, that he re- 
turned completely disgusted with the English nobility. 
My name was a sore trial, I fancy, but my grandfather 
would hear of no other.” 

“ Your father’s cousin,” pursued Mr. Bennett, as if there 
had been no interruption, “ succeeded to the title, but never 
married.” 

Mr. Seldon looked up with surprise, and it flashed across 
his mind that he might, some day, be heir to the earldom ; 
but, before he could speak, the stranger rose and stood 
before him. 

“ Lord Kichland is dead, and I have the honor of inform- 
ing you that you are Earl of Kichland, and heir to twelve 
thousand pounds a year.” 

“ But there were two brothers, my father’s seniors,” ob- 
jected Mr. Seldon. 

“I know,” said the stranger; “but one died in India a 
year ago, unmarried, and the other, who has been dead for 
years, left only daughters. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


175 


I have been in search of you for the last six months, and 
have blighted the hopes of so many Seldons, that, although 
from your resemblance to the late Earl I felt you must be 
the real heir, I concluded it best not to raise any expec- 
tations until I was positive. 

“You will have no difficulty in proving your claim, and 
really,” said Mr. Bennett, with a good-humored laugh, 
“ you must allow me to congratulate you, for I am so de- 
lighted at my success that I can scarcely resist wishing 
myself joy.” 

Mr. Seldon’s face had grown brighter, until it seemed 
fairly transformed, and even the lawyer was surprised as 
he grasped his hand, and said, with a joy and animation 
that lightened every feature, — 

“ You have made me the happiest man living.” 




CHAPTER XXVIII. 


M r. BEXXETT, accustomed as he was to all phases of 
character, and appreciating to its fullest extent the 
valuable information he brought, was surprised at Mr. Sel- 
don^s manner of receiving the news of his accession to a 
title and fortune. 

He was pale and worn when he met him, and seemed a 
person to whom the w’orld could offer nothing of sufficient 
interest to stir the calm of his sluggish existence. 

He was now drunk with joy, and scarcely made an effort 
to control his emotion. 

An hour before he had seemed a spiritless, half-bent 
automaton, and now he stood proudly erect, with flushed 
cheeks and flashing eyes. 

“ I will leave you to digest your good fortune,” said the 
smiling lawyer; and again Mr. Seldon wrung his hand 
warmly, and said with^emotion, — 

“ You have changed the whole course of my life ! ” 

“ It is more than money and rank he is thinking of,” 
was the shrewd decision of Mr. Bennett, as he walked 
slowly down the gravel path. And he w^as right ; for Mr. 
Seldon, alone with his new hopes, thought only of Mabel — 
the bright star that had illumined his destiny for a few 
brief hours, and then vanished, taking all the brightness 
with her. 

During all the dreary winter the future was so dark that 
the present was more supportable than to look forward ; 
but now it was radiant with hope. 


17G 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


177 


Mabel had loved him, even when she deserted him, and 
now that he had sufficient rank and wealth to gratify her 
highest ambition, she would not turn from him. 

He loved her so well he could pity her faults, and excuse 
them. 

It might be years before they met ; but his search would • 
be rewarded, and in the meantime he had hope and love 
to cheer him. 

He thought not of the misery she brought, — of the 
scorn that had darkened her face, — he only remembered 
that she had thrown her arms about his neck, and said she 
loved him. 

Margaret was proud and happy when he told her of his 
good-fortune ; but she rejoiced more that it wrought such 
a magical change in him than because she appreciated the 
importance and dignity of his new position. 

She did not think it a very great affair except the money. 
Mr. Seldon was as good as an Earl any day, — besides, to 
leave the United States and live with the horrid British 
was of itself a great sacrifice. 

Her great ambition for Mr. Seldon was that he should 
be a Congressman ; but there was no hope of it now, she 
thought with a sigh. 

It was evident she fancied the evil of his departure quite 
remote, but after a few days he explained that he would be 
obliged to visit England, and secure his title and fortune. 

He proposed that she should invite some of her friends 
to remain with her until his return. 

But she would not listen to staying after he was gone. — 
The house seemed strange and altered, and §he often thought 
longingly of her childhood’s home in Connecticut, and the 
brothers and sisters with whom she played, and she de- 
cided to make her home with them. 

She looked dejected, and to cheer her he spoke of his 
:\i 


178 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


speedy return, and the pleasant life she would have in 
England. 

She shook her head sadly. 

“ You will not need me in that country, and I am too 
old to change my way of life.” 

His heart smote him as he looked on her gray hair and 
bent figure. 

She was strangely altered, and he had been too absorbed 
with his own grief to notice the change. 

“ Poor old Margaret,” he thought, pityingly, and then 
the scene he witnessed between Mabel and herself came 
back to him. It had never struck him so cruelly before. 
He groaned inwardly as he rose and left the room. It was 
of Margaret, and the duty and afiection he owed her, that 
he thought. 

She had loved and cared for him from childhood, — he 
was all the world to her. It would be wrong to leave her 
now, when she was weak and broken in health, and needed 
his care. 

Before the long array of afiection and duty he owed the 
poor old woman, who had loved him with a mother’s devo- 
tion, would rise the beautiful face and form of Mabel, his 
heart’s darling. It was a terrible struggle he passed through 
that night ; but though he might waver, he did not relent 
— duty triumphed. 

Plis face was cheerful as he joined Margaret at the break- 
fast table. 

“You are not looking well,” he said, kindly; “we must 
change places; you shall be the invalid in future, and I will 
take care of you,” 

She looked up eagerly, and he added smilingly : 

“I will not leave you now; I will defer my journey to 
England until you are well.” 

Tears of joy dimmed her eyes, and her delight repaid 
him for the sacrifice of time. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


179 


She rallied for a few days, and then she was obliged to 
confess herself too ill to sit up. She never took her accus- 
tomed seat at the little round table again, and in less than a 
fortnight there w^as anotheir shrouded form in the pleasant 
little parlor, and Mr. Seldon watched beside it during the 
long hours. There were tears of softened grief on his face 
and sorrow at his heart for his humble but true friend. 

The sacrifice of time has not been long, he thought with 
a pang, as he looked on her placid, sunken features ; and he 
hlamed himself that he hesitated that night. 

He would not now have grudged her months or years, 
could he only have recalled her. It was too late for regret, 
and it would be selfish to wish her again in a world of 
struggle and pain. 

She had lived her life, and though sorrow had darkened 
the closing months of her earthly sojourn, yet the hope of a 
blessed eternity gladdened her dying hours, and carried her 
happily through the valley of the shadow of death. 

He thought of her favorite hymn as he looked for the 
last time on her aged, tranquil face, made beautiful by the 
smile that lingered as if in token that all was well with her. 

He could recall her expression as she used to sing falter- 
ingly, — 

“ There, anchored safe, my weary soul 
Shall find eternal rest ; 

No storms shall rise, nor billows roll. 

Across my peaceful breast.” 

She was at peace, and the storms of life could never reach 
her secure retreat. 

Again Mr. Seldon stood beside an open grave and listened 
to the burial-service. The clods were heaped on the coflin- 
lid — and he was alone in the world. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


fragile daisies and anemones of spring gave place 
JL to the roses of summer, and the gorgeous flowers of 
autumn and winter shrouded the earth in a snowy mantle, 
as if shielding the graves of the beautiful flowers from the 
chill blasts that had frightened away their bloom. 

As if it W’ere the resurrection of nature, the snow silently 
melted, and the flowers sprung forth fresh and blooming. 

It was spring again. 

The little church-yard where Mrs. Clifton and Margaret 
were sleeping the long, dreamless sleep that knows no wak- 
ing, was glowing in the sunshine, and the emerald grass and 
tender flowers grew in wild luxuriance. 

No one paused to drop a tear of affection over the little 
mound, or to place fresh flowers among the green turf. 

The birds sang the live-long day above them unstartled, 
and hopped and fluttered in undisturbed possession, for 
those who loved the quiet sleepers were far away. 

Mr. Seldon was hopefully wandering in far-away lands, 
with but one aim in life — to find his lost bride — his peer- 
less Mabel. 

And she, more beautiful than ever, lived the triumphs 
she had imagined and revelled in so often ; haughty and 
graceful as ever, without a shade on her brow or a shadow 
on her heart, except when a thought of the past and her 
husband chilled her with terror. 

It was impossible tp quite forget, but each day she be- 
came more heartless, to be admired and worshipped, her 
highest aim. Mr. Clifton, to whom she clung with endear- 

180 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


181 


ing tenderness in her sorrow, was neglected as soon as she 
recovered from the shock of the events that filled the few 
weeks of her wedded life with a bitterness that could never 
pass away. 

Society was her all-absorbing occupation. 

Even her sable dress and her mother’s memory would not 
induce her to live retired. 

The winter had been spent in Venice, and the beautiful 
American lady was the theme of all tongues. She was sur- 
rounded by a train of admirers, and she smiled on all in- 
discriminately. 

Mr. Clifton expostulated at first, but her answer silenced 
him. 

“ I must have excitement. Whenever I am alone, it all 
comes back to me. You w'ould not be so cruel as to deny 
me the only consolation left — to forget for a while I ” He 
could not resist her pleading look and pallid cheek, and 
the false life once commenced, there was no restraining her. 

She seemed now to have succeeded in forgetting, and the 
old plea was not brought forward. 

She listened now to his rebukes with flashing e5ms and 
insolent defiance, and he could not find it in his heart to 
silence her by a reference to the past. 

He had once attempted a gentle remonstrance, and said 
kindly, ‘‘My daughter, the attentions you receive under the 
circumstances are disgraceful. You are not Miss Clifton.” 

He was interrupted by grief so violent, that he never 
again ventured to refer to the past, and he felt that from 
that hour her afiection for him was lost. She could not 
forgive him for recalling what she tried to forget. Her 
coldly polite manner never varied, and each day he felt 
how little his presence added to her happiness. But for 
his wife’s sake, he still watched over her and endeavored to 
gratify every wish. 

16 


182 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


He had not visited Beatrice, but he wrote her before the 
expiration of the time appointed. 

“ I cannot be with you as I promised, but I am free to love 
you now, dear as you are, and always have been. I write 
these lines with tears in my eyes and grief at my heart for 
the friend I have lost. When I can be with you again, it 
will not be for a short time, but forever.” 

His -wife had been dead more than a year, but for the 
sake of Mabel he would not see Beatrice yet, he decided, 
and the weary months rolled on, and it was' spring, and 
each day, as the shadow was lifted from MabeFs life, his in- 
fluence grew less. 

He could not but admit now, with a pang that the hope 
of soon meeting Beatrice did not soften, that his presence 
was not necessary to her happiness. 

She scarcely treated him with respect, and scorned his 
authority. Stern, unyielding discipline he could not use 
toward her, with the memory of her mother’s pleading 
tones softening his heart ; and kindness and tenderness she 
was too selfish to understand, and too ungrateful to return. 

Mabel’s admirers were not such as he would have liked 
to -see his beautiful daughter receive graciously under any 
circumstances, — dissolute noblemen and adventurers, whose 
rank and position were as doubtful as were their morals ; 
and he decided to leave Venice at once, without the slight- 
est reference to MabeFs wish. 

She received the announcement of his intention with a 
scornful protest. “ It would be impossible for her to leave 
Venice for a month, and she was then to join a party of 
excursionists. I have promised both for you and myself, 
so your plan comes too late,” she said carelessly, as she left 
the room without listening to her father’s answer. 

The subject "was not referred to again, and she had dis- 
missed it without a thought. Several days later she je- 


MABEL CLIFTOK. 


183 


turned home in the glow of early morning, after a night 
of gayety on the beautiful Adriatic, with music, and all 
that could beguile the senses during the enchanted voyage 
over the smooth waves. As they neared the steps of the 
palace, a dark figure, draped in a heavy cloak, descended 
the steps, and she recognized her father. He assisted her 
to alight, notwithstanding her disdainful surprise at his ap- 
pearance. She stood silently watching the colored lights 
and the sparkling gleam left by the boat^s keel, little dream- 
ing that she would never look upon the like again, and 
that this had been her last night in “ beautiful Venice.” 

Her father laid his hand on her arm to arrest her atten- 
tion. “Have you forgotten that we leave Venice this 
morning ? ” 

His tone was so decided, that she knew it was vain to 
remonstrate, and in haughty silence entered the palace, and 
flinging herself on a couch, burst into a passion of angry 
weeping. She did not even change her dress, or remove 
the flowers from her hair, when her father came to an- 
nounce that the hour for their departure had arrived. 

Her maid adjusted her mantle, and sullenly tying on 
her travelling-hat, Mabel descended to the gondola. Her 
father had not attempted a remonstrance, but followed her, 
glad to be obeyed on any terms. 

She maintained an obstinate silence during the time they 
remained on the water. The morning was beautiful, and 
the air laden with perfume, but she never raised her head 
fruin the couch, or looked out on the glancing waves. 

When they landed at Padua, she condescended to inquire 
as to their destination ; and being informed it \ias Florence, - 
again relapsed into silence, but her face relaxed somewhat, 
and it was evident she was secretly pleased. 

The remainder of the journey was pleasjvnt, notwith- 
standing the inauspicious commencement, and Mabel kinder 


184 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


tLan she had been for months. The country through which 
they passed was beautiful, and Mr. Clifton in after-years 
often looked back to those hours as some of the happiest 
he had known. The memory of his wife had been robbed 
of all its bitterness by time, and the future was glowing 
with hope. Not only was he free to love Beatrice, but to 
give Mabel a protectress was a duty he was bound to fulfil. 

Beatrice, it was true, was not accustomed to society, but 
she had dignity and grace and beauty ; and no youthful 
lover ever looked forward so eagerly, or dreamed so fondly, 
as did Mr. Clifton during that pleasant journey. 

He purchased a beautifi.il villa on the Fiesole Mount, 
and through the English Minister, Sir Charles Reming- 
ton, he received every attention, and the entree of the 
most fashionable and aristocratic circles. 

Mabel was, as usual, very much admired, and entered 
with zest into every pleasure. She was as careless as ever 
in her demeanor to her father, and expressed no regret when 
he told her that he was going to Rome. 

He had never left her before since her mother’s death, 
and was a little hurt that she could receive the news of his 
absence so calmly ; but she saw him depart without any 
emotion, and a gay married lady, who had undertaken to 
chaperon her during his absence, was not more carelessly 
indifferent in her adieux. 

His heart was not altogether light as he started on that 
sunny morning. 

Beatrice might not have returned to Italy ; — she might 
be dead ; he had trusted so implicitly to her truth, that not 
a doubt of her constancy had before obtruded, but now his 
mind was filled with fear and anxiety. How could she 
trust him so long ? ” and if still faithful, had truth and 
beauty any power to turn aside the darts of that archer 
whose aim no love could avert ? 


? 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


185 


Hour after hour his impatience and anxiety increased, 
until it became almost unendurable. But all suspense must 
be ended some time, and the journey that seemed inter- 
minably long, drew at last to a close, and the driver, 
reining in his horses at the top of a long hill, informed him 
that from the summit of a bank rising above them he 
could see Rome. 

Springing out of the carriage, he ran lightly up the 
ascent, and the whole familiar scene lay before him, — the 
dome of St. Peter’s glittering in the sunlight like an im- 
mense globe of fire, and the picturesque ruins crowning the 
hills, and peeping through the foliage, — memories that had 
been slumbering for years came crowding back. Pie was 
but a boy when he last stood on that summit, and he was 
now at the meridian of life. 

He felt like an exile who after weary years returns to 
his native land and sees it smiling before him, unchanged 
and beautiful as when he left it. He gazed until the blind- 
ing tears blotted it from his view, and then hurriedly re- 
entered the carriage, anxious to hide the emotion he could 
not restrain. 

16 * 


CHAPTER XXX. 


HERE is nothing which so touches the heart as to re- 



J- turn, after an absence of years, to the spot we once 
loved and find it unaltered. 

Change after change passes over our lives, often so grad- 
ually they are almost unnoticed. 

The friends we love, leave us, or, like ourselves, alter ; — 
“ we make idols and find them clay,'’ and fashion others 
in their stead ; and our hearts grow harder and become so 
incrusted with worldly cares, that we do not love or grieve as 
Ave did in those early days. 

The wheels of time bear us unconsciously forward. We 
forget that we have ever been other than we now seem. 
But to look again from the starting-point of life, all the 
weary years are blotted out, and the impulses that guided 
us then, and the fresh youthful feelings, contrast with our 
present seared and callous hearts, and we realize all we 
have lost. 

“ What once hath been, can never be again.” Mr. Clif- 
ton felt this truth sadly, as the carriage dashed along to- 
ward the city he had left in the glow of early manhood. 

His dream was realized. He was returning to claim as 
his bride the still beautiful Beatrice ; he loved her more 
devotedly perhaps than in the olden time — but all Avas 
changed. 

Sorrow and years had touched the beautiful coloring of 
youth AAuth sombre shades. 

The boy Avas a Aveary man, but he looked back tearfully 
to the lost youth which smiled before him in all the gloAA'- 


186 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


187 


ing hues of spring-time and love. But, alas ! between rolled 
the gulf of years — a gulf he could never cross. 

“ Yonder is the Tiber ! ” said the driver, stopping again 
and pointing to the sheet of yellow water that glittered in 
the sunshine, narrowing into a line of light until it was lost 
among the cypress-trees that skirted the distant hills. It 
was teeming with memories of hours and pleasures forever 
gone. How often he sat with Beatrice at the foot of the 
pine-crowned heights of Monte Mario and watched the 
gleaming waters, tossing bunches of laurel on the surface, 
or weaving garlands of a beautiful blue flower, whose odor 
was so dreamy and delicious that it lulled the senses like a 
strain of music. 

He could bear no more, and waving his hand to the 
driver, he leaned back in the carriage and let down the 
blinds. He did not look out again on the familiar objects, 
although he could see in imagination each step of their 
progress. 

They neared the gate, said to be the work of Michael 
Angelo, passed the Egyptian Obelisk, and rattled along the 
Corso. — He was at last in Borne. 

With a powerful effort he mastered his emotions, and 
when he alighted from the carriage, at the door of the 
hotel, was as stalely and composed in his demeanor, as if 
he had never sighed over a broken love-dream. 

The afternoon shadows were lengthening when he started 
in quest of Beatrice. 

His heart beat high with expectation as he dismissed 
the carriage and ascended the side of the Monte Caho. 
Above was the little town, embowered in trees, but he did 
not stop to note its beauty, as he hurried along in search of 
the little stone cottage where Beatrice once lived. 

Handsome villas were now where trees had once cast 
their shadows, and his heart sank with a sudden fear as he 


188 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


reached the rocky eminence, where Beatrice used always 
to await his coming, and from whence he could see the 
cottage, its gray sides just visible, peeping from the grove 
that embowered it and the vines that twined in luxuriant 
profusion. 

A convent reared its stately w^alls, and a huge cross 
glittered in the setting sun, while the musical voices of the 
Sisters chanting their vesper-hymn broke the stillness of 
the afternoon with a rich volupae of sound. 

For a minute he was overcome with disappointment, and 
gazed despairingly at the lofty pile that had usurped the 
place of the beautiful grove. 

“ Of course, the cottage had been swept away to make 
room for it — it was romantic folly to think otherwise.’’ 
But he went on, notwithstanding he felt it vain. 

The convent was passed, and, with hope and fear alter- 
nating, he looked forward. There was the cottage, not a 
stone’s throw from the spot where he stood. 

He did not stop to think that it might have passed into 
the hands of strangers — that it was improbable Beatrice 
should still be there, but with all his old impetuosity hur- 
ried forward, and, pushing aside the vines that drooped 
low over the arched doorway, entered, flushed and eager 
with expectation. 

There was a startled exclamation, a hurried footstep, 
and he clasped to his heart his long-lost Beatrice. 

She clung to him in silence, her face hidden on his shoul- 
der, and her fingers trembling in his thrilling clasp. 

What were all the years of separation — his lost youth, 
to him now ? 

His happiness in that one moment atoned for all the 
past. 

All the barriers of pride were swept away. He was no 
longer the stately, dignified man of whom even his wife 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


189 


stood in some awe when she loved him most, but tender 
and loving as a woman. 

He kissed the forehead, and lips, and purply hair of 
Beatrice, calling her endearing names, as he begged her 
“ to speak to him once more, to say she forgave him.” 

She could not answer : she could only smile tremulously, 
and look at him, her mournful, beautiful eyes glistening 
with tears. 

The joy and surprise burst upon her so suddenly, it was 
like a full gleam of sunshine to a prisoner whose dungeon 
has been for years unillumined by a ray of light. Hour 
after hour passed so rapidly, that Mr. Clifton could scarcely 
believe it so late as twelve, but the golden hands of the 
pretty ormula clock pointed unflinchingly to that hour, 
and he rose to go. 

Beatrice accompanied him past the latticed enclosure, 
and the moonlight gleamed full upon them as they emerged 
from the shrubbery into the open space. 

She was magnificently beautiful. There was a softened 
grace and dignity in her mien that more than atoned for 
the buoyancy of youth. 

Mr. Clifton surveyed her with rapturous admiration, 
though he said half sadly, — 

“ You are still beautiful, Beatrice — more beautiful than 
ever. Are you sure you do not repent having waited so 
long ? I am not the person you once loved, — I am old 
and changed.” 

He smiled at her look of devotion ; and as he drew her 
fondly toward him, he noticed for the first time that she 
was in deep mourning. 

“ You never liked black ; why do you wear it now ? ” he 
said abruptly. 

Tears dimmed her eyes, and she murmured almost in- 
audibly, — 


190 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


“ I wore it first for Galatina, and since your letter I have 
worn it for your wife ; ” and she leaned her head upon his 
shoulder. 

Completely overcome at this new proof of devotion, he 
stood for a while in silence, his tears falling on her glossy 
hair. 

“ Tell me, carrisima, of Galatina,” he at last said, speak- 
ing very gently ; and he seated himself on the trunk of 
a cypress-tree and drew her to his side. 

She hesitated, as if it w^ere a painful subject, and with 
downcast eyes commenced her recital. 

“ He died the first month of our return. He was weak 
and languid for some time, but I never suspected he was 
so ill until the day he died ; but he knew it long before.” 
She was silent a moment, and then said passionately, — 

“ I cannot talk of him even to you, — he who was my 
only friend for so long.” 

Mr. Clifton’s heart ached at the thought of her desolate 
misery. 

He stroked her hair, and said sorrowfully, — 

“There is one thing, Beatrice, to which I can neve^r 
become reconciled, — your living alone so long.” 

“ I was not alone : the good Sisters were very kind to me. 
I stayed at the convent for a long time, and one of the lay 
sisters is wdth me now. But I was very desolate ; ” and 
she clung to him fondly. “ It seems like a fearful dream, 
now, our long separation. But you will not leave me 
again. Did you not promise me ?^’ she said, with a kind of 
terror in her face, as he hesitated with an expression of 
indecision. 

He had intended to prepare Mabel for his marriage, 
before he took a bride to Florence; but he could not 
resist the appeal of Beatrice, or leave her longer without 
a protector, and the momentary cloud left his face when 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


191 


he decided that his immediate marriage 's^as clearly a 
duty. 

He reassured Beatrice, and with many repeated good- 
nights and caresses they separated. He retraced his steps, 
full of tranquil happiness, without a wish or regret to mar 
the beauty of the soft Italian night. 

The air was laden with the refreshing odor of the pine- 
trees, mingled with many a subtiler fragrance from the 
flowers nestling in the turf at his feet. 



CHAPTER XXXL 


S EVERAL mornings before Mr. Clifton departed for 
Rome, a weary, travel-stained man arrived at Florence, 
and mingled wdth the motley crowd that thronged the 
hotel. 

His fellow-travellers had felt some curiosity as to his 
rank and object in journeying. It was plain he cared noth- 
ing for the scenery. The most beautiful views never eli- 
cited a remark, and the, conversation of a gay tourist was 
listened to with an unmoved countenance. 

He was not aware that his pale, handsome face was an 
interesting study to his companions, for his mind was busy 
with the past, and the hope that, spite of all discouragements, 
urged him from place to place. 

He was forgotten in the hurry and bustle of arrival, and 
quietly made his way to the registry. With an anxious 
look he scanned the names, and at last turned away disap- 
pointed and listless. 

“You expected friends to meet you,” said the smiling . 
tourist who jostled against him. 

He started^at being addressed, and stammered an inau- 
dible answer; and the tourist, examining the registry, saw 
WTitten in a firm, bold hand, “Earl of Richland and ser- 
vant.” 

He gave a prolonged whistle in his astonishment. “ That 
unpretending man an earl!” He had thought him, at 
best, a poor artist. 

Many a poor artist whose best lodging was an attic, and 
who labored hard for thQ crust that sustained life, >vould 

192 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


193 


not have envied the Earl of Eichland, with all his wealth, 
had he witnessed his utter despondency as he sat alone in his 
room. In all the world there was no welcome for him — 
no face that would brighten at his approach. 

In the far-off village of his Western home the spring- 
flowers were blooming on the graves of all who had loved 
him — his parents and the kind old nurse. . Two years had 
wrought many changes ; the village was a thriving, popu- 
lous town, and there were none, perhaps of even acquaint- 
ances, to recognize him, should he return. But of all places 
in the world would he most shun the home that had shel- 
tered his childhood. 

His happiest days had no memories bright enough to 
soften the sorrow that had there blighted his life ; and when 
he knelt for the last time in the little church-yard, it was 
his farewell to the old life and the old scenes. 

He had no difficulty in establishing his claim to the 
earldom, and, after a rapid tour of the United States, re- 
visited England and took possession of his estates. 

The new life was at first so fascinating that he was for 
a time contented, if not happy ; but as the novelty wore off, 
he became each day more sad and taciturn, and the gay friends 
whom his wealth and rank attracted gradually left him. 
Ladies he never noticed after the first weary glance ; and 
although his handsome person and melancholy air disposed 
them to lionize him, they soon grew tired of dispensing their 
smiles wffien they were so little appreciated. 

If he found his grand house dreary and the new life un- 
interesting when society filled up the hours, it was insup- 
portable when he no longer received visits, or lightened 
some of the tiresome intervals with dinners and parties. 

His very soul longed for Mabel ; how she would grace 
the brilliant scenes in which his lot w^as cast. She had al- 
most loved him as plain Mr. Seldon ; would she despise 
17 N 


1&4 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


him now, when he could offer her the coronet of a countess? 
Y/hy should he despair? she might yet be found, perhaps 
no farther away than London ; and he decided to seek 
wherever there was any possibility of his search being 
rewarded. 

But he returned after several months, hopeless and dis- 
couraged. He made a last desperate attempt to be happy 
and contented, renewed his acquaintance with the country- 
gentry and nobility, and filled the house with gay fashion- 
ables during the Christmas season. 

Billiards and rides occupied the day, and at night charades 
and dancing filled the halls with merriment and music. 
But he was a mere spectator ; there was no answering echo 
in his spirit, and.the mirth around him was like some dreary 
pageant. 

His heart grew sadder each day, and the cloud on his 
face deepened. 

Restless and unhappy, he was forced to mingle in the gay 
throng, one of them, and yet apart and separated in his 
sorrow. 

He was alone in the world and could form no new ties. 
With everything the smiling goddess Fortune could offer, 
wealth, rank, and a high position, he was miserable. 

Like Midas in the fable, imprisoned in a golden house, 
with the moulded likeness of choicest viands loading the 
heavy table, or like the ancient mariner, 

“Alone on the wide, wide sea,” 

*‘with water around him everywhere/’ and his lips and 
throat parched and baking with thirst. » 

He was standing one evening apart from his guests, 
moodily surveying them, and thinking over his ruined 
hopes, when a merry little sprite stopped before him, and 
touching his arm with her jewelled fan to attract his atten- 
tion, said wdth mock humility, — 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


195 


“My lord, we are playing forfeits, and 1 am sent to ask 
you to marry me; please, don’t refuse, for the ceremony is 
not bindingj and I have so much at stake.” 

She paused with a little shriek of dismay as his very lips 
grew white. There was a look of speechless misery in his 
large eyes as he surveyed her for an instant ; and then he 
turned abruptly and hurried from the room. 

“What can it mean?” she exclaimed, dolefully; “I shall 
never forgive myself, or forget his look.” 

Many were the surmises of the guests as they crowded 
round the young girl whose playful daring had been so un- 
expectedly received ; but they saw their host no more that 
night. 

Their surprise was nqt diminished when at breakfast the 
next morning the butler gave them a note from the Earl, 
and said that his lordship had left the castle, on the early 
train. The note gave no clue to his singular behavior, as 
it simply stated, “that he found himself totally unfitted for 
society, and hoped they would do him the honor of remain- 
ing as long as they wished, etc., without reference to his 
departure. 

For more than a year Lord Kichland had been travelling 
constantly. Change of scene brought with it no pleasure, but 
it soothed liis restlessness, though hope ever charmed him 
onward, to leave him more desolate. Mabel was still the 
object of his thoughts. Among the glaciers of Switzer- 
land, in the romantic valley of Chamouni, and amid the 
beautiful scenery of the Ehone. 

Every spot of England, France, or Germany, celebrated 
and the resort of travellers, was visited in vain. And he 
now turned to Italy with freshened hope. Blaming him- 
self that he had wasted so much time when it, of all other 
lands, would be the most likely to offer attractions to an 
invalid. 


196 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


He had travelled before without a servant, and as sim- 
ply Mr. Seldon ; but he decided now to assume his name 
and rank, and make public inquiries. It was not likely 
that a brilliant beauty like Mabel would live retired, and 
he brought with him letters of introduction to the English 
Minister, and several distinguished Florentine noblemen. 

Florence had, of all other places, seemed the more likely 
to reward his search ; and he could scarcely endure the 
disappointment, when his most accurate examination of the 
registry failed to show him the name of Camden. He was 
too disheartened to present his letters of introduction for 
several days, and wandered listlessly about the beautiful 
city, more intent in his scrutiny of the faces that passed 
him, than of the loveliness for which Florence is so cele- 
brated. 

Sir Charles Kemington received him with distinguished 
courtesy, and was all sympathy and attention, as the Earl, 
quite won by his manners, told him his object in visiting 
Florence. He only spoke of Mr. Camden and his daughter 
as friends. But Sir Charles gathered by his agitation and 
melancholy air that it was more than ordinary interest he 
■felt for them, and that their recovery was of vital impor- 
tance to his happiness. 

“ If your friends .are in Florence, you will probably 
meet them in society, perhaps, at my reception to-morrow 
evening. I will do all in my power to assist you, by in- 
quiries here, and through my agents elsewhere, and with- 
out any publicity, if you prefer your search to be secret.” 

Lord Richland thanked him earnestly ; his hopes rose 
higher each moment of their conversation ; and it was 
wij^h an almost cheerful air that he promised to avail him- 
self of the minister’s invitation and be present at the as- 
sembly. 

Sir Charles mentioned his new acquaintance to his 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


197 


daughter Stella, a beautiful young girl with fair, clustering 
curls, and an enchanting sprightliness of manner. She 
promised to be very entertaining to the melancholy Earl, 
in fact, irresistible, if her father desired ; ” but her lover, 
the Count Von Stresenthral, protested “ that such a promise 
was treason to himself, and if her father uttered another word 
in praise of the Earl, he would not allow her to be even in- 
troduced.” Sir Charles listened, with a smile, to their non- 
sense, and thought with fatherly pride there was not a pret- 
tier pair of lovers in all Florence, than his blue-eyed Stella 
and her handsome fiancee. A servant announced “ Miss 
Clifton,” and Stella, hanging on her lover’s arm, went for- 
ward to receive her. 

There was a slight embarrassment in the Count’s man- 
ner, and his face flushed for an instant, as Mabel extended 
her white, jewelled hand, after a cordial greeting, to Stella. 
His fingers scarcely closed on the delicate palm that lin- 
gered in his, and without glancing at the beauty that lured 
him with a subtle power, he bent low over Stella’s laughing 
face as he murmured a hurried apology for leaving her, 
and bowing coldly to Mabel, joined Sir Charles. 

He scorned his weakness, but the radiant vision Tras not 
to be exorcised ; and Mabel, with her star-like eyes, exqui- 
site features, and scornful red lips, displaced the dimpled 
cheek and the fair face of his betrothed. 

17 * 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


M abel was decidedly the most elegant and admired 
belle on the evening of the Minister’s grand recep- 
tion ; the loveliest flower of the parterre that glowed with 
beauties from every land. The Hon. Miss Remington, the 
Minister’s pretty daughter, had smilingly witnessed the 
desertion of the train of lovers, that a week before had 
courted her smiles as if they were the embodiment of sun- 
shine. But there was a little shade of anxiety on her face 
as she glanced now and then toward Mabel, and saw tower- 
ing above the rest the handsome figure of her noble lover, 
the Count Von Stresenthral. 

She had always known him to be an enthusiastic ad- 
mirer of beauty, and laughed with him over the idols a 
day or a week were sufficient to dethrone. But now that 
the time appointed for their wedding was so near, this ap- 
pearance of devotion to another was not at all pleasing. 
Save one hurried greeting, on his arrival, she had been left 
to her own resources in fulfilling her duties as hostess. 

Standing by her father’s side, she received with undi- 
minished gayety the throng of guests. 

Mabel was in her most brilliant mood, and every mo- 
ment the hapless Count grew more entranced, and less 
capable of resisting the glances that led him on to such a 
delirium of passion, that his honor, and even his long affec- 
tion for his affianced bride were trembling in the scale. 

He had made a gallant struggle, for he was sincerely at- 
tached to his laughing, blue-eyed Stella, and the marriage 
appointed for the next month had been tJie bright star of 

198 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


199 


promise during a year of exile, in which he had wandered 
listlessly through scenes of bewildering beauty. 

He glanced away from Mabel to his betrothed. So fair, 
so winsome, she looked in her fresh, young beauty. Her 
gay laugh fell on his ear, — the silvery laugh, so musical in 
its sweetness ; the full, red lips were parted, and the pearly 
teeth gleamed saucily. He could imagine the piquant 
words so bewitching in their very daring. There was a 
half look of reproach in the merry eyes that sought his for 
an instant, and were turned resolutely away. 

Tears of tenderness started unbidden to his own ; could 
he live without that sunny face, or see it clouded wdth a 
sorrow his perfidy had wrought. His affection revived, 
and he half turned to join her when his name was mur- 
mured softly. 

The words addressed to him were commonplace, but the 
tone so thrilling that he thought the hashing eyes bent on 
him with a look — yes, it was devotion ; love that had 
mingled with his dreams, that he had thought too en- 
chanting for earth. What w^as his plighted word, the 
bauble called honor, to the bliss of being loved by the 
peerless creature before him ? 

Her eyes met his for a moment, and then the white lids 
drooped low on her crimson cheek. 

The room whirled round, and scarcely conscious, he 
stooped and raised the fan that had slipped from her grasp, 
and fallen to the fioor. 

He held her hand for an instant as he restored the 
trinket, and he forgot the crowded room, his honor — 
everything but the siren before him. 

Her self-possession did not desert her, though his reckless 
agitation almost frightened her. 

She rose with queenly grace and took his arm as care- 
lessly as if unconscious that in the brief moment past the 


200 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


decision had been made that would bring scorn and con- 
tempt on a name hitherto uncoupled with dishonor, and 
blight a young life that had been before all sunshine. 

She might have trembled at the disgrace that would 
attach to her own name, but she was too exultant in her 
triumph to care for the comments of the world, or to feel 
pity for her victim, or relenting, as they passed his be- 
trothed, the kind young girl who had welcomed her so 
cordially. 

Count von Stresenthral had been harder to win than any 
of the other suitors, who wearied her with their attentions, 
and were so insipid. Their conquest had been too easy ; 
she tired of them already. But the Count, after the first 
startled surprise at her wonderful beauty, had almost 
ignored her existence. 

It was in vain she made her most efiTective toilettes. 
Stella, in floating blue muslin, with a few rose-buds in her 
hair, was a talisman that protected him. 

Even her wonderful voice failed to attract him, while he 
would listen entranced to Stella singing a simple Scotch 
melody. 

Stella had been her kindest friend since her arrival, and 
Mabel would probably have allowed her to enjoy the only 
conquest she prized — the heart of Count von Stresenthral ; 
but he was the most distingue of all the gentlemen at Flo- 
rence, — quite the lion that season, — and she began to 
almost hate Stella, who was childishly triumphant at her 
defeat. 

Excitement had become necessary to her happiness, and 
to win the Count had been the study of her existence, since 
the hour they first met. She was obliged to proceed 
warily until her father’s departure left her at liberty to 
exercise her wiles as she pleased. 

One minute exultant, the next a word or look from 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


201 


Stella would recall her recreant lover, and Mabel, indig- 
nant and revengeful, would smile on her other suitors, and 
hide her defeat with a mask of. indifference. 

She had won at last, and Count von Stresenthral was her 
devoted lover, prepared to brave everything for her sake. 

But a denouement was not at all to her taste. His devo- 
tion, purchased at the price he required, was dearly won. 

Even while he professed to love her with an idolatry 
that changed his very nature, though he trembled at a 
word or glance, and was so enthralled by her witching 
beauty that he seemed to be under a spell, no blandish- 
ment or sophistry could win him from his purpose of 
breaking his engagement, and telling all to Stella. 

“ I haye been weak, I have been a villain ; I renounce 
even love for your sake,” he said, passionately, as they 
stood together in the shaded garden, — “ but I will be at 
least sincere.” 

Mabel clenched her hands in her anger, but her face 
was calm, and her flashing eyes downcast. 

The love she had been trying to gain had sprung into 
existence suddenly, and broken down every barrier. 

She had been obliged to feign love to win his. He was 
not a weak slave, who would be content to receive a smile, 
or a flower, as sufficient reward for his devotion. 

She could not but respect him, though angry that he 
should thwart her plans. He was manly in his very 
weakness. 

She thought to win him for her devoted slave, but she 
had not intended to commit herself in the least. He 
scorned concealment; and yet she was not prepared. either 
to dismiss or accept him. 

She could not endure that he should despise her, as she 
felt he would, if she told him that the glances that had 
won him from duty were feigned. 


202 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


His love was a prize she could not keep, — she felt this 
now, as they stood in the calm moonlight ; but it was pleas- 
ant while the novelty lasted, — it gave a new zest to life. 

She hated herself that she would plead to him, but, 
proud as she was, she was not prepared for the consequences 
that would follow his public avowal of his passion. 

After a rather stormy interview, he at last consented to 
carry on the deception of an engagement with Stella, until 
Mr. Clifton’s return. 

But no entreaties would induce him to remain at Flor- 
ence during the interval. He would not even return to 
the saloon ; and baffled and perplexed, Mabel withdrew 
into the shadow formed by a column of the miniature 
temple, and thought of the result of all her plotting. 

Never had she been so disconcerted. She had won 
Count Von Stresenthral, but she could not glory in her 
triump)h. She must either dismiss him, upon her father’s 
return, or have it made public that she had accepted the 
love of her friend’s betrothed. 

Had she been free to marry him as Countess of Stresen- 
thral, she would have defied her father’s anger, and smiled 
at public opinion. Her position and wealth would have 
given her distinction, and silenced the voice of society. 
Her marriage placed a fatal barrier to the realization of 
her most ambitious dreams. 

She wrung her hands in despair, and crouched further 
into the shadow, as a step sounded on the gravel-path 
outside. 

She was hidden from view, but the figure at the doorway 
of the temple was distinctly visible. There was something 
familiar in the tall, handsome form — a something that 
thrilled her with a. sudden terror. 

She could scarcely tell why she trembled, but a moment 
more and the face was turned toward her, and she saw 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


203 


her husband — more stately than when he stood before 
her last, but still pale and ghastly. 

The air was fragrant with the perfume of flowers, and 
the fountain sent up sprays that glittered in the moon- 
beams like myriads of diamonds. The night was beau- 
tiful, but she could see no beauty. Pale and breathless 
she sat, as if turned to stone, watching the motionless 
figure of her husband. 

He sighed at last, a long, weary sigh, and seating him- 
self on the marble step, covered his face with his hands, 
and murmured something. She could not understand the 
words ; only “ Mabel ” w’as repeated twice, so mournfully, 
her heart ached at the sound. 

For a while she sat transfixed with terror. 

“Was he still insane, and had he come to seek her?” 

But she soon dismissed the thought. There was some- 
thing in his air that gave the contradiction to that fear, 
but her terror was not diminished : to meet him would 
be utter ruin. 

She crouched farther into the shadow of the column 
against which she leaned, trembling in every limb, and 
almost fainting. 

At last, to her great joy, he rose and walked down one 
of the paths of the garden. She scarcely waited for him 
to disappear before she hurried to the palace, and as quietly 
as possible made her way to the dressing-room. 

She dispatched a servant for her carriage, and wrote a 
hasty note to Stella, to say that she was quite ill, and must 
return home immediately. 

Stella came to her at once, and, frightened at her pallor 
and agitation, begged her to remain with her at least for a 
few days, or until Mr. Clifton’s return. 

Mabel forgot how’ she had wronged her, and for a mo- 
ment w^as tempted to accept her invitation. She thought 


204 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


with a shiver of the lonely villa. Hen friend, the married 
lady who had undertaken to chaperon her during her 
father’s absence, had that morning received a message 
calling her to Venice. 

But Mabel decided, after a moment’s reflection, that to 
remain at the Minister’s palace would increase the danger 
of discovery, and no entreaties could alter her resolution 
of returning to her villa. 

She borrowed a cloak, on pretence of sufiering with the 
cold ; and her chattering teeth and shivering limbs were 
sufiicient excuse for the assertion. The cloak formed a 
complete disguise, for it enveloped her figure, and with 
the hood drawn over her head, and the addition of a heavy 
veil, it was impossible she should be recognized ; but she 
trembled and shrunk at every footstep on her way to the 
carriage. 


CHAPTEK XXXIII. 

11 /f ABEL scarcely felt safe after entering the carriage, 
JxL for the moonlight was dazzlingly brilliant. She kept 
her face covered with her veil, and dreaded to reach home, 
for then she would be obliged^to leave the friendly seclu- 
sion of her curtained seat. 

The delay of her servant in opening the door almost 
drove her wild with impatience. 

It was impossible her husband could be there, and yet 
she dared not raise her eyes, lest they should rest on his 
familiar figure. 

She breathed more freely when the door was closed and 
bolted, and, dismissing her maid, she hurried to her room, 
glad to be alone and to think over her plans for the future. 
And very dismal the future looked to her now. 

Her only pleasure in life was society, and to live in 
seclusion was a horrible alternative. Her brain reeled 
with the eflbrt to think, and she started and trembled at 
every sound. If she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, 
she would see before her the pale face of her husband. 

Spite of her fear of him, and her anger at the tie that 
stood between herself and ambition, there was an aching 
void at her heart as she thought of his devotion, and a 
pang of remorse at the remembrance of his sorrow as he 
sat before her in the shadowy moonlight of the beautiful 
garden. 

Then imagination would blot out the past and present 
for a while, and, revelling in visions of the brilliant future 
she would command as the wife of the Count Von Stres- 
18 205 


206 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


enthral, she would forget she was already married, until, 
starting at some sound, her heart would sink with dismay 
at the thought that her husband was still insane and 
searching for her. She could imagine all the horrible 
details of such a meeting, until only the fear of acceler- 
ating her fate enabled her to repress a shriek of terror. 
She wrung her hands in despair, and would have welcomed 
her father’s presence as a priceless boon. 

The hours passed slowly and morning dawned; but al- 
though the daylight allayed the violence of her fears, it 
could not dispel her anxiety or lessen the tedious monotony 
of her seclusion. 

The afternoon shadows were lengthening, when a carriage 
dashed along the avenue. 

There was a moment of terrible expectation and dread, 
and then Sir Charles Kemington appeared and assisted his 
daughter to alight. 

Mabel sank into a chair with a feeling of relief, but it 
was only momentary, for it suddenly occurred to her that 
Mr. Seldon might have prevailed upon Sir Charles to 
attempt a reconciliation ; he might have come for that pur- 
pose. 

So terrified was she at this new thought, that she could 
scarcely answer as there was a light tap at the door, and it 
was impossible to rise and receive her visitor. 

It was not strange that Miss Remington paused in aston- 
ishment. 

Mabel had not removed her party-dress. The jewels 
were still in her long hair and gleamed in strange contrast 
with her pallid, fear-stricken face and disordered toilet. 

The rich satin was crushed and rumpled, and her hair 
hung in dishevelled masses below her waist. 

Stella’s face was less bright than usual, and there was 
some reserve in her manner, but it vanished at Mabel’s 
evident distress. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


207 


Slie advanced to lier side and held her listless hands 
soothingly, while she said with cheerful kindliness, — 

“ You must not think I had forgotten you. I sent to 
inquire how you were at the earliest possible hour, and your 
maid sent word that you had not yet risen, and she disliked 
to waken you. 

Pa ordered the carriage immediately after luncheon, for 
he was quite in a state of anxiety at your illness, but he 
was detained by a visitor.” 

Mabel started so suddenly that Stella stopped speaking 
and surveyed her curiously, as her pale cheeks flushed and 
she almost gasped — “ Who was it ? ” 

“ No one you have ever met, — an English nobleman,” 
said Stella, still more surprised at the air of relief that 
crossed Mabel’s face. 

After a little hesitation, she said gayly, although her eyes 
were averted and her lips tremulous, — 

“AVe have a grave charge to prefer against you, and 
being a foreigner, you can expect no mercy. The most 
grave and worshipful Count Ernestien Von Stresenthral was 
seen with your queenly self, and his subsequent fate is 
wrapped in mystery. Guilty or not guilty of spiriting him 
away ? ” 

“Not guilty!” said Mabel, half smiling in her intense 
relief. 

She had been expecting something of her past life — 
some allusion to the stranger in the garden. “ He deserted 
me without much ceremony. I believe hQ intended going 
on an excursion to the woods of Valambrosa.” 

She closed her eyes wearily, and Stella, with a lightened 
heart, busied herself arranging the heavy masses of her 
hair. The gentle touch soothed her restlessness, and with 
a sigh, Mabel yielded to the pleasant influence. 

“ You look much better now,” Stella said at last. “ I 


208 MABEL CLIFTON. 

wish I could persuade you to return with me. You will 
never get well left alone. 

“ By the way, this English nobleman is a prize worth 
winning.’ Too much on the Hamlet order to suit my fancy, 
but handsome, immensely wealthy, and an Earl. Pa has 
set his heart on introducing him to you. 

“ If you are only sighing for conquest, here is an oppor- 
tunity too glorious to be lost.” 

Mabel smiled bitterly, but no persuasions could induce 
her to accept Stella’s invitation to return home with her. 

The young lady turned playfully at the door as she was 
about taking her departure. “ I have not yet despaired of 
winning you from your seclusion. You are too alive to a 
sense of what are your rights as belle supreme of Florence, 
to allow any meaner rival to triumph. Countess of Kich- 
land ! — just think of it ! A German Countess is not to be 
mentioned in the same breath. — Au revoir!’^ and with 
a gay laugh she disappeared. Mabel watched her fro^m 
the window, a savage scowl darkening her face, as she 
said bitterly, — . 

“And she presumes to jest with me — a German Coun- 
tess indeed ! she is too confident. I hate her ! ” . she mut- 
tered between her clenched teeth — and sitting down on 
a low ottoman, she sobbed aloud. 

Her nervous system was completely prostrated. 

Between terror, loss of sleep, and want of nourishment, 
she was almost insane as she continued her soliloquy. 

“ The foolish, silly child, without half my beauty, accom- 
plishments or elegance, has every wish gratified. — She — a 
Countess — and I ” — she pronounced the words bitterly — 
“the wife of a common Western man without talents or 
education — not so elegant as our very coachman ! ” Again 
she wept in perfect abandonment. 

At last she became calm suddenly, and rising, walked 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


209 


tlie floor, her cheeks crimson and her eyes flashing with all 
the proud brightness of triumph. 

“ What have I to fear ? ” she murmured; and going to the 
mirror, which reflected mockingly her queenly beauty, 
she gazed long and earnestly. 

“ Yes, Count Von Stresenthral is but mortal. I will bend 
him to my will. If we are married before my father 
i'eturns,^he wdll have no alternative, with all his pride 
and regard for justice, than to obtain a divorce for me, 
and nothing will be easier than to have a second ceremony 
performed. As Countess Von Stresenthral I can defy the 
world.” So she mused in proud defiance of every barrier 
to her wishes. 

The difficulties of her position disappeared as if by 
magic. She did not even tremble at the wickedness she 
contemplated. 

What would have been her horror two years before, 
co^^ the temptation to which she was about to yield been 
oiWed for her acceptance. 

She was innocent then, and pure in thought and impulse, 
spite of her haughtiness and ungovernable temper. Step 
by step had she -wandered in her downward course, and 
now a precipice yawned before her, and without a warning 
qualm of terror, she ^tood on the brink — scornful and 
radiant in her proud determination to win in the battle of 
life. 

The soft shades of evening replaced the gorgeous Italian 
sunset, and a star trembled above the foliage that crowned 
the Fiesole Mount. 

Calm and beautiful was the night, and soothing in its 
influence ; but Count von Stresenthral, weary and depressed, 
stole along under the friendly cover of the trees, as if he 
Avere a guilty criminal who sought the darkness as his only 
protection. 

18 * 


0 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


^ step was slow and irresolute, and liis hand, usually 
so firm, trembled as he grasped the bell-handle. 

The peal was loud and piercing, and Mabel stopped in 
her walk to and fro on the carpeted floor of her room and 
shivered with terror. 

Again the bell rang ; she heard the hall-door open and 
shut and a murmur of voices, and after a moment of sus- 
pense her maid appeared with a card, and Mabel j^ad with 
a thrill of delight — 

“ Count von Stresenthral. •’ 

Fatigue and fear were alike forgotten as she made a 
hurried toilette; her cheeks flushing with the anticipation 
of triumph, and her languid eyes bright and hopeful. 

The Count w^aited her coming in an agony of impatience. 

It was not the impatience of a lover who counts the min- 
utes until the appearance of the adored mistress of his heart, 
but a restless desire to rid himself of the haunting thoughts 
that had robbed him of rest and left their impress on^^s 
haggard face and burning brain. 

Away from the bewildering glances that had ensnared 
him, he realized to the full extent the grave consequences 
of Stella’s sorrow, her father’s anger, and the contempt his 
perfidy so justly deserved. 

The miserable part he was acting was harder to endure 
than all the rest. Concealment goaded him to distraction, 
and he vowed that Mabel should release him from his 
promise of awaiting Mr. Clifton’s return. 

“She owes me this small concession,” he thought bitterly. 
“ It will be a relief to tell Stella I am a villain. I will feel 
less like one after that confession.” 

He could think thus of Mabel, even while his pulses 
thrilled at the remembrance of her words and glances. 

The door opened softl}^ and a radiant creature crossed 
the threshold, — glorious in her beauty as the evening star, 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


211 


perfect in face and form, with a brilliance that startled all 
the haunting memories, and made him forget everything 
but the present. 

It needed not the thrilling tones, or the warm pressure 
of the hand he clasped in his to complete the spell. 

He felt with beating heart as he assented rapturously to 
the suggestion so artfully worded, that it seemed the natural 
result of his determination to reveal all to Stella. “ That 
if she dared, 

“Light the path to Stygian horrors 
With the splendor of her smile,” 

he would follow unflinchingly. 

He did not pause to think of a time when the charm that 
lurked in her rippling brown hair and scarlet lips, and the 
crimson that mantled her cheeks and brightened her won- 
drous eyes would fade or lose its powder, for his senses were 
lulled by the magic spell of her beauty, and the past and 
the future -were forgotten as he basked in her love. 

The moon had risen as the door closed on Count von 
Stresenthral’s retreating figure, and he walked proudly from 
the villa in the quiet moonlight, exultant in the thought that 
the beautiful Miss Clifton w^ould be his bride before the 
stars rose again above the glittering river. It was the 
wildest delirium of passion that stirred his pulses, a de- 
lirium from which many awaken to life-long regret. 

Love so quickly born often dies on the very air that gave 
it birth ; but it is no\ while the blissful tide, like a draught 
of rich wine, stirs the current of life, that the knowledge 
comes. 

“ Mabel — what a beautiful name ! ” he murmured, un- 
conscious that he was uttering the thought aloud until a 
gentleman, sitting on the portico of one of the palaces that 
line the Arno, started eagerly and laid his hand on his arm. 


212 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


The Count grasped the hilt of his dagger ; but a glance 
at the stranger’s face reassured him. 

It was pallid and quivering with emotion, but not insolent, 
and he stopped politely to listen. 

“You will pardon me, sir,” said the stranger, earnestly ; 
“but the name you uttered is the name of — a dear friend 
for whom I have been searching more than a year; — was 
it Mabel Camden of whom you spoke?” 

The Count shivered with a nameless terror as he an- 
swered, — 

“Camden was not the name.” He added, kindly, as the 
stranger turned his face from him, “ I am sorry I can give 
you no clue to aid you in your search. Camden is a name 
I never heard before.” 

With a hasty apology and a sigh of disappointment, the 
stranger left him ; and the Count, walking slowly on his 
homeward way, somehow could not recall the charm that 
had rendered the night enchanted. The river glittered 
coldly beside him, and dim forebodings dissipated the be- 
wildering visions that had glowed in beauty but a little 
while before. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


N the morning succeeding the reception, the Earl of 



Richland returned from an interview with Sir Charles 
Remington, and commenced preparations for an immedi- 
ate journey to Rome. 

He was buoyant with hope, for he believed that he had 
at last found a clue to the object of his search. 

There had been in Florence some three months previous, 
a gentleman and lady who answered to the description of 
Mabel and her father ; and, what was still more encour- 
aging, the name was Camden. They had lived strictly se- 
cluded, in a small cottage on the bank of the Arno, and 
had left suddenly for Rome. 

Furnished with letters, and every necessary direction for 
prosecuting his search. Lord Richland commenced his jour- 
ney. Never had he been so hopeful since the day that 
Mabel left him alone in his despair. 

He little thought that each mile bore him further away 
from her ; or that on the night of the reception, when he 
left the gay throng and wandered in the silent garden, the 
object of all his hopes heard each sigh that burst from his 
aching heart, and that the marble statue that shone before 
him in the moonlight was not more cold or unloving. 

The morning after his arrival at Rome was occupied in 
arranging the search, as Sir Charles recommended, and 
that business completed, he could only await the result with 
patience. 

That a crisis in his destiny was approaching he felt as- 
sured, and he tried to prepare himself for his fate as he 


213 


214 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


strolled listlessly along, scarcely heeding Avhere his foot- 
steps led him. 

He passed the Forum and wandered into the Colosseum. 
Even his attention was arrested by the beautiful ruins, that, 
magnificent in their fallen grandeur, burst upon his vision. 
The glowing sunshine lighted up the columns and arches, 
and the air was fragrant with perfume wafted from the 
emerald turf at his feet. 

What was the present, with its petty cares, — one life 
balanced against the Works that had existed, while thou- 
sands of human beings like himself had perished and left 
no trace behind to tell they had ever been. Overcome with 
the vanity and nothingness of boasted man, he seated him- 
self on a fallen column, under the shelter of an aged ilex, 
over which the ivy had thrown a graceful net-work, and 
watched, with increasing wonder and admiration, the huge 
pile of stone-work rising above him in lofty tiers, and al- 
most reaching the white, fleecy clouds. 

The quietness and beauty gradually soothed his restless 
spirit, and a languor crept over him so delicious, that he 
yielded to its influence, and lay with half-closed eyfes lazily 
drinking in the beauty around him. 

He was startled by the sound of voices, and with a sigh 
looked out from his leafy covert. 

Two Englishmen seated themselves near him. The cheer- 
ful monotony of their, voices grew fainter, and he was al- 
most asleep, when a name pronounced by one of them sud- 
denly recalled him from the world of dreams. 

The blood rushed madly through his veins, and his heart 
throbbed as if it would burst as he leaned forward to listen. 
Camden was the name he heard. 

There was a little pause,, and the speaker threw himself 
carelessly on the turf. 

^‘Now that I am comfortably disposed of, I will tell you 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


215 


the story. Patience is a desirable virtue, and this will be 
a fine opportunity to display it.’^ 

Lord Kichland clenched his hands convulsively as the 
speaker made another pause. 

“ You said her name was Camden,” suggested his friend 
by way of reminder. 

“Yes, Camden — Mirabel Camden — Mabel was the 
name she usually went by. She and her father had been 
travelling over the Continent for the benefit of his health, 
which was feeble. They stopped at Naples for a couple of 
months, and Miss Camden became acquainted with a per- 
son, who was to every appearance a gentleman, and being 
young and sentimental, — and he the last person in the 
world she should have fancied, — of course she fell in love 
wdth him, and spite of her father’s opposition, married him. 
He proved to be an adventurer of low origin and most un- 
principled habits. Whether he committed the crime to 
possess himself of her father’s fortune, or out of revenge at 
his opposition, is not known ; but the facts are these : 

“ Her father being obliged to meet a friend at Kome, in- 
sisted that his daughter should accompany him ; and they 
started one morning, the son-in-law escorting them a part 
of the way with every appearance of friendliness. 

“ They were within ten miles of Rome, when a party of 
ruffians rushed upon them. One seized the old gentleman 
and attempted to drag him from the carriage. 

“ The daughter sprang to his assistance with the fury of 
an enraged tigress ; but she was quickly overpowered, and 
her father murdered before her eyes. But mark ! During 
the scufile the rufiian who first attacked them lost his 
mask. He regained it instantly, and, as he thought, unob- 
served ; but Mabel saw his face distinctly, and it was her 
husband ! 

“ The ruffians fled to the woods, leaving the coachman 
tied on his box. 


216 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


The party were found by some travellers ; the unfortu- 
nate young lady in a death-like swoon, and the old man 
lying half out of the carriage, perfectly dead. 

“ Every means was taken by the police to arrest the 
murderers, and a large reward ofiered by the Pope for their 
apprehension, all to no purpose. But when the guilty hus- 
band arrived, his wife denounced him as the murderer ; 
and frightened and confused, he made no denial. His com- 
panions were arrested, and they all suffered the penalty 
they so richly deserved.” 

“ Horrible ! ” said his friend ; “ but the unfortunate young 
lady — what became of her?” 

“ Poor girl, she went into violent convulsions after she had 
given in her evidence, and was never conscious again. She 
died after several, hours.” 

“ Died ! O Heaven ! she cannot be dead,” shrieked Lord 
Richland, and he stood before them, his face sharpened 
with agony. “ She was false to me, but, oh ! she cannot be 
dead!” and sinking to the ground, his frame shook with 
convulsive sobs. 

Frightened and amazed, the two itieh surveyed him in 
silent pity, and the one who told the story with such non- 
chalance, wept like a child. 

Hours passed before Lord Richland was sufficiently com- 
posed to be taken to his hotel. He yielded himself pas- 
sively to the guidance of the strangers. He wms com- 
pletely prostrated by the blow, and scarcely conscious 
during the week of illness that followed. They offered 
him every attention that kindness could dictate. Those 
who have been ill among strangers can realize the grati- 
tude and affection inspired, and the loneliness Lord Rich- 
land felt w’hen they left him to proceed on their journey. 

He would havl accompanied them to Alexandria and 
sought forgetfulness amid the Pyramids of Egypt, but he 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


217 


was tired of travelling, now that the object which gave it 
zest was removed, and he decided to return to England, 
and in the careful fulfilment of the duties of his station 
endeavor to gain that peace of mind to which he had so 
long been a stranger. 

’ Although filled with grief and horror at the dreadful 
fate of the young girl, who he doubted not was his lost 
Mabel, he was no longer dissatisfied and restless. 

The worst was easier to bear than the uncertainty that 
for two years had filled his life with bitterness, and de- 
prived him of the power to be interested, or enjoy any of 
the blessings Providence had placed within his reach. 

19 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


C OUNT VON STRESENTHRAL’S blissful musings 
were not of long duration. His meeting with the 
stranger thrilled him with dim forebodings ; and the eager 
look that gave place to disappointment, broke in upon his 
world of dreams and dispelled all the enchantment. 

It was in vain that he endeavored to recall some of the 
tones and glances that had drawn him into an elysium of 
delight. He tried to picture Mabel’s glowing face, shaded 
with its wealth of rippling, wavy hair, and live over the 
caresses that had won him from duty, and the calm love 
that had brightened his existence and never stirred his 
pulses wildly, and then left a stagnation that was akin to 
despair. 

It was all in vain : the pretty face of his betrothed 
would blot out Mabel’s superb beauty, and her playful 
words and gay laugh dispel all the thrilling scenes he tried 
to recall. 

All the consequences of his weakness were before him, 
unsoftened by a glance from the siren who had ensnared 
him, — his broken engagement, and indecent haste in form- 
ing new ties. Pie thought, with a groan, “ No galley-slave 
would have been guilty of the base act I have committed.” 
In long review rose the history of his engagement, and, alas I 
his happiness, noAV forever gone. 

What was the wild, passionate exultation that thrilled 
his pulses, like a draught of some rich wine, when Mabel’s 
beautiful face looked into his from its resting-place on his 
shoulder ; Avhat was it, compared to the exquisite pleasure 

218 


M A B E L L I F T O N. 


219 


that made the world seem all sunshine, when Stella’s eyes 
drooped beneath his glance, and her soft hand rested con- 
fidingly in his own ! 

There had been no magic of burning looks and glances ; 
Stella had not artfully measured each grace that was- to 
ensnare him. He had loved her, and his devotion aw’ak- 
ened the first affection of her innocent heart. He had 
won her proudly, and their engagement had, for two years, 
been commented on wdierever they were knowm. 

His wedding-presents, the family jewels, had been re-set, 
and were expected daily to arrive. Nothing could be 
more public than their expected marriage, among all the 
friends and relations of both parties. 

He had fancied the - sacrifice nothing to the love he felt 
for Mabel, wdiile basking in her smiles ; but the fascination 
died before the appalling consequences. 

Morning found him haggard and miserable, and he 
looked forward to the evening with a feeling of horror 
nothing could soften. 

Stella had resumed her rightful place in his heart. He 
knew now, when it w^as too late, that she w^as dearer to him 
than life ; that she was the one woman who roused all his 
better nature, and that she w’as more to be loved in her 
simple, artless truthfulness, than the brilliant coquette whose 
presence made him forgetful of all that w^as higher and 
nobler in his nature. 

He alternately cursed the pitiable w^eakness that had* 
ensnared him, and mourned the love and the peaceful 
happiness he had thrown away for a bewildering dream, 
from which he awakened while its brightest visions w^ere 
being realized. 

He cared nothing now for the dishonor, — every thought 
was lost but . that Stella could be his no more, and that 
the first sorrow that clouded her happy life would be a sor- 


220 


MABEL CLIFTOI?’. 


row brouglit by the man to whom she had given her truest 
devotion. 

As, in agony no words could express, he attempted to 
write the words that would awaken Stella from her serene 
happiness and change her love for him to loathing, he had 
drained the cup of humiliation to the very dregs. Fate 
could offer nothing more terrible in the future, and no 
happiness could atone for that hour of despair. 

The afternoon was drawing to a close, and Stella, who 
had been restless all day, joined her father, and tried to 
interest herself in the books and papers that loaded the 
heavy table before which she was seated. 

She soon tired of her attempt to be interested, and, seat- 
ing herself at the window, looked listlessly out on the hills, 
misty in the distance, and far away to the mountains, whose 
snow-clad summits seemed to pierce the clouds that floated 
lazily over the blue sky. 

But she was not thinking of the landscape or the moun- 
tains, but of her lover, and the burden of her thoughts 
was wonder at Ernestien’s absence. 

A servant handed her a note. Her face lighted as 
she glanced at the superscription, and she gave an excla- 
mation of delight. Her father looked up from his papers 
and smiled at her beaming face. The next moment he 
started at a faint sound like a stifled moan, and hurried to 
her in alarm. 

Her face was white as marble, and her eyes had a wild, 
startled expression ; she placed the note in her father’s 
hand without speaking, and his agitation and eager haste 
almost defeated his purpose, and the letters swum before him. 

The writing was almost illegible, and the paper blotted 
from a hurried folding. 

It was sighed “Ernestien von Stresenthral,” and he 
could scarcely credit his senses as he read : — 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


221 


“Stella, ray heart’s best love! — I ara writing to you for 
the last time. I need not ask you to forget me, for my 
despicable conduct will make that impossible. I have 
no excuse to offer for my desertion, and no words could 
palliate my villany. I am to be married this evening to 
j\Iabel Clifton. Hate me as you will ; you cannot desi)ise 
me as I do myself.” 

Her father read the note again and again, before he could 
comprehend the rpeaning. 

Count von Stresenthral had been attached to his daughter 
so long, it seemed impossible he should desert her — impos- 
sible he should marry another I 

“ It was some cruel mistake — or the Count was ill ; the 
note was not one a sane person would write ; ” so Sir Charles 
argued. But Stella laid her hand on his arm to detain 
him, as he would have hastened away. 

“ No, dear pa,” she said, in a harsh, strained voice, “ it 
is no mistake ; I feel it is true as he writes.” The tears 
dimmed her father’s eyes, and he turned away to hide his 
grief. 

If Stella had shown her sorrow in a wild, passionate man- 
ner, he could have essayed to comfort her ; but his courage 
failed him at the sight of her stony composure. 

Could it be his merry, happy daughter who came to him 
after a while, so calm and stately in her despair ? 

There were no tears in her eyes, and her dimpled mouth 
was compressed and rigid. She laid her hand on his shoul- 
der and said quietly : “ I will leave you now, pa ; I cannot 
see any one to-night ; ” her lips quivered; “ to-morrow,” — 
she stopped abruptly. Her father caught her hands and cov- 
ered them with tears ; he could not trust himself to speak. 

“ Give me the note, pa,” she said at last ; “ I will arrange 
my letters and presents and return them ; then, I think, we 
had better never mention his name again.” 

19 * 


222 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


He took her in his arms and kissed her ; but she did not 
speak, and turned silently from him. 

Long after the household were at rest, her father stole 
noiselessly and listened at her door. There w'as no sound 
of weeping, no noise or hurried footstep. He was powerless 
to comfort, and, sorrowful and stricken, he sought his own 
room, to pray that the Merciful Father, who tempers the 
wind to the shorn lamb, would watch over his wronged 
child and pour the balm of His mercy on her sorely bruised 
soul. 

Alone during the long night did Stella battle with the 
first grief that had ever clouded her happy life. She did 
not weep, or moan, or wring her hands ; but her heart 
ached to bursting, and her brain seemed stupefied. 

With a kind of dreary calmness she collected all her 
store of love-tokens — the letters, books, and trinkets, each 
one a souvenir of some happy hour ; she did not keep the 
most trifling. 

They lay before her on her work-table in a glittering 
pile. It was her Mecaria, and her heart-strings seemed en- 
twined with each ofieriug. She trembled and turned away. 
If she looked longer, she would not have courage to finish 
her task. 

She took the ring from her finger and laid it with her 
other lost treasures. 

It was a magnificent ruby with a circlet of diamonds, 
and it flashed and sparkled from amid the heap of 
pretty keepsakes as if it were a thing of life and pleading 
with her to take it, again — as if it said, “We have been 
companions so long, do not cast me from you.” 

She looked at it sadly and longingly, and then laid her 
cheek against it caressingly. But she must not think of 
all it had been to her, and the remembrances that made it 
so precious, for there was one more sacrifice, the last and 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


223 


most dreaded — the miniature that day and night rested 
near her heart. Her fingers trembled nervously as she un- 
wound the slender chain from her neck, and the tears fell 
thick and fast. She had not intended to look at the pic- 
tured face again, but the impulse was too strong to be re- 
sisted, With a burst of grief she flung herself on her knees 
before her treasures, with the picture pressed to her burn- 
ing face, and for the first time yielded to her despair. 

Her weakness was not of long duration, and she rose, and 
dashing the tears from her eyes, gazed long and fondly on 
the pictured face. The brown eyes looked kindly into hers, 
and the mouth seemed to smile. “Never again on me,” 
she murmured ; but she kept back the tears, and pressing 
it again to her lips, laid it carefully away with the rest ; 
and placing them all in an inlaid writing-desk — his last 
gift — locked them from her sight. 

The sacrifice was over ; she must think of him no more. 
The love she had once cherished was now a crime. Every 
hope for the future in which he shared must be crushed. 
Alas ! that future would now be a struggle to forget. He 
had mingled with every thought for years ; morning and 
evening had she breathed his name in her pure orisons, her 
most fervent prayer had been for his happiness. But it 
was all over now. There must be no wavering or yielding 
to the weakness she was determined to conquer. 

How the Minister’s heart warmed toward his brave, 
beautiful child as she joined him at the breakfast-table the 
next morning, smiling 'and cheerful as if she had not lost 
the brightest hope in life. She was paler than usual, and 
there was wanting the winning playfulness of manner. 
She was more the woman and less the child. “She will 
bear it now,” he thought, “and soon forget him.” He 
could not see the aching heart that throbbed so wearily, or 
know the struggle it cost her to appear calm. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


R. CLIFTON and Beatrice were married quietly as 



JLtJL soon as the necessary formalities were disposed of, and 
the happy pair, united after so many trials, started imme- 
diately for Florence. 

Mr. Clifton thought it best to surprise Mabel. He had 
not entirely outgrown his youthful weakness, of taking an 
important and irrevocable step, and afterward braving the 
objections and difficulties that should have been met at 


first. 


The only cloud that marred the happiness of Beatrice, 
w as a doubt as to Mabel’s reception of herself, and the fear 
that she w^ould remember their former meeting and the 
words then uttered. She could not remember what they 
w^ere. . They had been wrung from her, in her almost insane 
despair, just after she discovered that the Edw^ard whose 
memory she had w^oi’shipped during years of absence 
had been false. 

Mr. Clifton w’ondered at the half shade resting on 
her beautiful face, but he could not doubt her affection, 
almost idolatry, for himself. It w^as apparent in every 
tone and glance. The most jealous, exacting lover would 
have been satisfied. 

Their journey was the old dream of enchantment real- 
ized ; what matter that the country through which they 
passed w’as barren and desolate ? 

The sunshine w^as warm and glowing, and the rugged 
rocks and treeless heights seemed to smile in beauty. 

But after passing Sienna, nature in her most winning 


224 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


225 


loveliness exliibited her treasures, as if to reward them for 
the pleasure they had shown in traversing a country that 
a volcano had desolated. 

The hedges were blooming with verdure and musical 
with the song of birds, and the graceful branches of the 
oak, with the wealth of leaves and ivy garlands, drooped 
low and mingled with the pale green of the olive and the 
glossy depth of color in the sweet-scented bay. 

On emerging into the more open country, they passed 
glades trellised with graceful vineyards and sloping hill- 
sides, green as emerald and interspersed with blue and 
white flowers, that seemed to smile a welcome as they 
peeped slyly from their dewy covert. 

They drank deep draughts of beauty, and Beatrice for- 
got that there was sorrow or distress, or that aught less 
happy than themselves could breathe the flower-laden 
air, until an elegant carriage passed them and she caught 
a glimpse of a pallid, melancholy man who was leaning 
dejectedly on the cushioned seat, as if the beauty wearied 
him. It was the Earl of Richland on his way to Rome ; 
but Mr. Clifton was too intent upon w^atching the radiant 
face of his newly restored Beatrice, to care for anything so 
trivial as the passing of a stranger. 

What a change in the destiny of two persons would have 
been efiected, had Lord Richland caught a glimpse of Mr. 
Clifton’s face. 

But fate willed it otherwise, and each went on his way 
unconscious of the crisis that would have ended, for one of 
them, the care and responsibility that threw the only 
shadow on his happiness, and to the other been life itself, 
or like the magical opening of the gates of Paradise. 

The glow of a golden Italian sunset bathed the city of 
Florence in its amber coloring, and lighted its palaces and 
P 


226 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


domes, tlie graceful bridges and the glittering river with 
sloping woods stretching down to the water’s edge, and the 
line of mountains rising beyond Fiesole and towering till 
they reached the clouds. 

Mr. Clifton, with the hand of Beatrice clasped tightly in 
his, drew her to his side, and together they watched the 
beautiful scene spread out before them, until the glow faded 
and the veil of darkness shrouded the fair city ; and re-en- 
tering the carriage, they were driven swiftly along the silent 
streets to Mr. Clifton’s villa, — Beatrice said little, but she 
nestled closer to her husband’s side, and he felt her hand 
tremble in his. 

Mr. Clifton, too, was silent, and almost regretted having 
given Mabel no intimation of his expected marriage; 
but it was too late now to remedy the mistake, for the light 
from Mabel’s window gleamed through the foliage, and the 
dim outline of the house was just visible. 

- The villa was usually a blaze of light, and Mr. Clifton, 
with a feeling of relief that he would scarcely have ad- 
mitted, told Beatrice that Mabel was probably away, and 
his w’elcome was all she would receive that night. 

Her own relief was evident, and her smile was very bright 
as he assisted her from the carriage at the gate and dis- 
missed the driver. His baggage and servants would come 
by the post. 

The moon had not yet risen, but the stars shone brightly, 
and the shaded walk, along which they sauntered slowly, 
looked tempting in its dim obscurity. 

Mabel had almost completed her wedding toilet, and 
was fastening a linen collar round her delicate neck, when 
the sound of wheels made her start nervously, although 
she had given strict orders to the servants to admit “ no 
one.” 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


227 


Count von Stresonthral, his servant, and a priest were now 
awaiting her arrival in the dimly lighted parlor. She had 
never felt so nervous and ill at ease, and the presence of 
her maid was unendurable ; she had dismissed her peremp- 
torily some time before, but her trembling hands rendered 
her task of dressing slow and tedious. She felt reassured 
as after a short delay the wheels were again heard ; “ the 
carriage had not entered the avenue,^’ and with a hasty 
glance at her reflection in the mirror, she descended to the 
parlor. 

Count von Stresenthral hurried to meet her. He was 
now the more nervous of the two, for she had regained her 
composure and was as tranquil and self-possessed in her 
haughty beauty as if she Was not about to steep her soul in 
crime. 

There was no greeting exchanged between herself and 
her lover. His face was pale and haggard, and his hand 
trembled as he led her to the priest. 

Her cheek turned a shade paler as the ceremony com- 
menced, but her responses were made in a clear, distinct 
voice. The Count’s tones were so faltering, and his agita- 
tion so apparent, that her indignant interest rendered her 
unconscious of the opening of the door and the faint echo 
of footsteps in the hall. 

The priest stopped abruptly. Count von Stresenthral 
seemed unconscious of the interruption, and stood with his 
downcast eyes fixed steadfastly on the floor ; but Mabel, with 
a thrill of terror, turned, and not five paces from her 
stood her father. She could not see his companion ; she 
only noted his pale, startled face as he surveyed her. 

It was a singular tableau. The dim, mystic light falling 
on the group; each figure as motionless as if suddenly 
turned to stone ; Mabel erect, proudly defiant in her queenly 
beauty; the Count’s tall figure drooping as with the 
weight of humiliation. 


228 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


Mr. Clifton stern and unflincliing, and Beatrice clinging 
to liis arm ; lier face crimson with excitement, her dewy 
lips parted eagerly, and her dark eyes fixed steadfastly on 
her husband’s face ; the frightened servant shrinking back, 
and the stolid face of the priest transfixed with amazement. 

Surprised at the continued silence, the Count raised his 
eyes inquiringly to the priest, and then in an instant com- 
prehended the w'hole affair as his glance rested on Mr. 
Clifton. 

His face lost its pallor, and his eyes flashed proudly as 
he motioned the priest to proceed. 

Frightened and perplexed, he recommenced the cere- 
mony ; but Mr. Clifton’s stern voice arrested the words on 
his lips. 

‘‘I forbid this marriage,” and he strode hastily to Ma- 
bel’s side. 

The Count turned fiercely and again motioned the priest 
to continue the service so strangely interrupted ; but Mr. 
Clifton stepped before him, and his slow, distinct words 
dropped like icicles on Mabel’s heart : — 

“ This ceremony cannot proceed ; my daughter is already 
married.” 

There was a moment of profound silence ; and the Count, 
like one awakened from a fearful dream, walked slowly to 
the door. 

Mabel had turned haughtily from her father, and her 
breast heaved wildly with the anger that rushed like a lava 
tide in her veins. 

Her lips were tightly compressed, and her eyes glowxd 
like stars as, with a faint cry, she sprang forward and laid 
her hand on the Count’s arm. 

“What does this dastardly conduct imply? do you intend 
to desert me ? My former marriage w^as not binding ! ” 

The Count surveyed her with a shudder. The charm was 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


229 


over ; slie was no longer the enchantress who could lure him 
from duty, love, and honor. She had ruined his hopes ; 
but the spell was broken, and he turned from her with a 
shudder. Her father drew her away and closed the door 
on the Count’s retreating figure. ^ 

The priest and servant were gone, and Beatrice, Mabel, 
and Mr. Clifton 'were alone. ^ 

Beatrice was now pale as marble, and Mr. Clifton led her 
to a sofa and stooped to reassure her. She pressed his 
hand kindly ; but they both started as a slight moan fell 
on their ear. 

Mabel’s face was turned resolutely from them, but her 
hand w^as pressed to her heart as if in pain. 

She pushed her father from her with a look of baffled rage 
and despair in her dim eyes, and would have spoken, but 
a gush of blood choked her utterance. 

Beatrice supported her sinking figure, and Mr. Clifton 
rang for assistance. Mabel leaned her head on the arm of 
Beatrice and looked imploringly in her face ; but at her 
father’s approach her anger returned, and she tried to rise; 
but a second gush of blood deprived her of the power to 
speak or move, and Beatrice motioned her husband away 
and raised her tenderly in her arms. The physician, who 
arrived shortly after, pronounced her case very critical. She 
had ruptured one of the larger blood-vessels, and quiet and 
freedom from excitement were necessary to the preservation 
of her life. 

She was carried to the room she had thought to have 
quitted forever ; and Beatrice, with quiet tenderness, watched 
by her bedside; only leaving her to speak a word of com- 
fort to Mr. Clifton, who waited outside, not daring to enter. 
Mabel was now quiet as an infant, for she clung to life as 
only those can cling who have no hope beyond the grave. 

20 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

S TELLA was sitting alone in the library the day suc- 
ceeding the news of her lover’s desertion. 

There was no longer a necessity to be cheerful, or to 
wear the mask that had been assumed to hide her grief from 
her father’s watchful eye, and from a censorious world’s com- 
ment or pity. It would not be for long, this communing 
with her own thoughts ; her father would return, or visitors 
be announced; but it was a relief to be alone for a time, 
however short. She sunk wearily back in her chair, and 
her face took a wan, haggard expression, while her hands 
were clasped tightly as if in pain. 

The sunshine rested like a halo on her fair, drooping 
head, and lighted the curtained recess with gorgeous hues 
from the stained-glass windows. Crimson, purple, and gold 
tinged her rich dress and rested brightly on her white, 
clasped hands, — now the color danced along the carpet 
gayly, as if to mock her sorrow with their brightness; 
the very air seemed taunting her as it came in laden with 
the perfume of orange-blossoms. 

She w^as so weary, she loathed the beauty around her, 
and longed for the night that came so slowly ; she could 
have prayed with the poor seamstress, — 

“ Only for one short hour, a respite however brief, 

No blessed leisure for love and hope, 

But only a time for grief.” 

A time that could not come for hours. 

There was a muffled footfall on the soft Persian carpef ; 

230 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


231 


thinking it was a servant, she did not change her position ; 
but the step came nearer, and with a sudden beating of her 
heart she looked up, and Count Von Stresenthral stood 
before her — so pale and haggard she would hardly have 
deemed years could have so changed him. She met the 
mournful eyes that looked on her so imploringly, — she 
could not utter a word, but sat before him pale and cold. ^ 
“ Will you not speak to me, Stella?” he said, huskily. “I 
can better bear to hear you say you despise me than this 
silence.” 

She hesitated, and her pale lips moved; she could not 
think now of how he had wronged her. She only saw his 
w^retchedness, only felt she loved him, and so she held out 
her hand. Count Von Stresenthral grasped it almost tim- 
idly, but at the familiar touch, the love came back in a 
resistless torrent, and he pressed it passionately to his lips 
and sunk at her feet. 

“ Stella, my darling, you do not despise me then ? you 
will not cast me off?” he almost sobbed; and he laid his 
cheek against the cold hands now clasped in his. 

Her tears fell fast on his glossy hair, and she did not 
withdraw her hands — she loved him so dearly — Mabel 
had no right to him — her own Ernestien. 

She forgot for a time his marriage, then it came back to 
her remembrance ; and her face that had flushed with the 
bliss of returning happiness, grew ashy pale, and a chill 
like that of death shivered her frame. 

She withdrew her hands from his grasp, and rose sadly 
and firmly. 

The hopeless, despairing look that met hers, almost de- 
stroyed her courage, but she would not allow the Count to 
retake her hand, and her voice, although faltering, was 
decided. 

“This interview is a needless trial to both. I wish you 


232 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


well, and shall always pray for your happiness, but we 
must part now.” He held her firmly as she would have 
left him, and said eagerly, — 

“You must hear me, Stella, if you then banish me for- 
ever ; ” and with a rapid utterance, and an eloquence his 
passionate love gave him, he told her all his sad story — 
his weakness and remorse, and the attempted wedding. 

“ Stella,” he said passionately, “I never knew how much 
I loved you until I stood beside her and thought our fates 
were to be indissolubly united. Your face was before me 
all the time ; had she been a fiend, I could not have felt 
more dread. I saw then all the wiles that had lured me 
from you, and only despised her less than myself.” 

His voice softened, and he again took Stella’s hand, but 
without raising his eyes to her face. 

. Stella, I cannot ask you to be my wife now, you would 
always distrust me ; but when I have proved my constancy, 
may I hope that you will love me again ? ” 

She looked on his pale, haggard face and downcast eyes, 
and her own filled with tears ; but her face was bright with 
happiness, and her cheeks glowed with a roseate hue. 

Her smile had something of its old gay sauciness, as she 
said, with attempted playfulness, — 

“ After my heroic resolution of living without you, I 
should distrust myself were I to be guilty of the weakness 
of yielding. The only consistent course for us will be to 
leave all to pa.” 

The Count started eagerly, and his face flushed with - 
returning hope, and then paled. “It could not be that sh-e 
meant what she said, she was but mocking him.” 

He grasped both her hands, and looked imploringly in 
her face. “ Stella, do not jest with me now ; I deserve that 
you should despise me, but my sufferings should appeal 
to your pity ! ” 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


233 


There was a minute's silence, and he gazed timidly on 
her glowing, half-averted face ; then she bent over him and 
said : — 

“ Dear, dear Ernestien ! ” 

The tone was not to be mistaken, and amid tears and 
blushes and rapturous protestations from her pardoned 
lover the reconciliation was completed. 

Sir Charles Remington’s surprise was beyond expression, 
when an hour later he returned and found the happy pair 
sitting side by side on the low-cushioned window-seat, in an 
attitude that was unmistakably lover-like. 

He had never before been so near being angry, but 
Count Von Stresenthral and Stella knelt at his feet, and 
the pleading eloquence and contrition of the unfortunate 
victim to inconstancy, and the happy face of his daughter, 
so softened his heart that he wavered in spite of himself — 
and Stella decided the conflict by saying playfully, al- 
though she ended with a torrent of tears, — 

“ I know, pa, that you think Ernestien deserves to be 
punished by a year’s probation. I see it in your face, and 
I might agree to the justice of it, only I will be equally 
punished.” 

20 * 


CHxiPTER XXXVIII. 


ORE than three weeks had passed since the evening 



-LVX of the attempted marriage of Mabel and Count Von 
Stresenthral. 

Mabel had almost recovered from her illness; she was 
still pale and languid, but her physician had pronounced 
her sufficiently recovered to dispense with his services. 

In taking his formal leave, he said, “ All you need now, 
Miss Clifton, is exercise in the open air and cheerful 
society.” 

Xo persuasions had been sufficient to induce her to leave 
her room or even see her father. 

She bowed stiffly in answer to the advice, and a bitter 
smile lingered on her face after the door closed on his 
retreating figure. 

Mrs. Clifton watched her for awhile in silence, and then 
with some hesitation crossed over to the window-seat, where 
Mabel was indolently reclining. 

“ Mabel, dear,” she said, placing her arm round her ca- 
ressingly, “ won’t you let me persuade you to ride this even- 
ing ? It will make you feel like a different person.” 

Mabel did not shrink from the caress, but the cold, hard 
look was still on her face, and she answered briefly, without 
so much as a glance, — 

“ I do not wish to ride.” 

Mrs. Clifton looked at her wistfully, and a yearning 
loving expression crossed her face as she noted the listless- 
ness of the young girl before her, so beautiful and yet so 
uninterested in life, with apparently no affection and no 
hope. 234 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


235 


She had tried so hard to win Mabel’s love, and through 
it reconcile her to her father, and sometimes she would 
fancy her less cold. Her pity now overcame her diffidence, 
and she knelt beside Mabel, and clasping her in her arms, 
pressed her lips to her cold cheek. “ O my beautiful 
darling,” she murmured softly. “ If you could know how I 
long to'comfort you, you would love me a little — you are 
too young to look so coldly on life. 

“ I do not say, that you have not had ample cause,” she 
said soothingly, as Mabel shivered slightly, — “ but you will 
sooner forget.” 

Mabel started to her feet and her cheek flushed eagerly. 

“ Forget whom?” she said, in a cold, severe tone. “ Do 
you refer to Count Von Stresenthral? — I do not mean to 
be unkind to you,” she added more softly, extending her 
hand to Mrs. Clifton, who had started back with surprise 
and pain. 

“ You are one of the few I like — if I am capable of any 
feeling so tender,” — she stopped and leaned wearily against 
the window. — “My physician gives me strong hopes of 
life when he tells me to tr}^ and preserve an even calm — 
that it is necessary to my recovery. 

“ How can I be calm in this hated place, when every 
breath I draw is torment, and my blood boils in my veins. 
You ask me to ride,” she said, passionately, — “to ex- 
hibit myself — when the very beggars on the street have 
probably heard my story — 

“ That I tried to marry Count bah ! I will not say his 

name — it stifles me — and that my father, with a kindness 
that was doubtless prompted by paternal affection, inter- 
fered and placed me in the position I now occupy, r- my 
name a scorn and by-word for simpletons to bandy about. 
Don’t interrupt me, — I have been silent until my heart 
seems bursting ! 


236 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


“Just think how delightful it would be to afford enter- 
tainment to the gaping multitude ! 

“ Do order an open carriage, — I wonder if I had better 
appear in full bridal costume ? ” 

She stopped from exhaustion, and the breath came short 
and quick from her parted lips. 

Mrs. Clifton held her hand, and raised her eyes, wet with 
tears, to her flushed face. 

“ You are mistaken, carrissima. The story is not known, 
except to those 'whose interest it is to keep silent. Would 
Sir Charles Remington or his daughter wish it known ? 

She stopped abruptly and stole a quick glance at Mabel’s 
face. Mabel answered it with a bitter laugh. 

“You did not fancy that I had not heard of the mar- 
riage ; my maid informed me. I should think his first ex- 
perience in private weddings would' have warned him 
against a second. However, it ended better,” she added, 
as if to herself. 

“ The whole family left Florence immediately,” pursued 
Mrs. Clifton. “ You can now understand that if the story 
was told, or surmised, no one could have known to a cer- 
tainty; the marriage would have seemed a direct contradic- 
tion. Edward, that is, Mr. Clifton, asked me to persuade 
you to receive company while you remained here. He says 
it will be best, and that as soon as you are well enough we 
will leave Florence, and your wishes will decide him as to 
the destination.” 

Mabel withdrew her hand and seated herself in the arm- 
chair. Her face was flushed and angry, and her lips trem- 
ulous with scorn. 

“ Doubtless your husband has great regard for my 
wishes,” she said, cuttingly; “ but I have decided to relieve 
him of any further responsibility. Will you favor me by 
telling him so ? ” 


MABEL CLIFTOJf. 


237 


Mrs. Clifton drew herself to her full height, and her eyes 
flashed for an instant, but she said quietly, — 

“ I will carry no message to my husband that his daughter 
should not send. Dear Mabel, let me implore you to thiilk 
and speak of your father more kindly.” 

She glanced at Mabel’s face as she stopped speaking ; it 
had changed from hauteur to the most intense surprise. 

Mrs. Clifton trembled at her scrutiny, and her eyes sunk 
beneath her gaze. 

Mabel rose to her feet. 

‘‘Where have I seen you before? I have had a vague 
feeling, since the night you came, that I had some time met 
you — and your expression just now recalled something. 
Why cannot I think ! ” she said, impatiently. 

There w^as the same look of affright on Mrs. Clifton’s 
face as when she met Mabel’s contemptuous gaze in the 
wood, near the gipsy camp, and her attitude was the same, 
as she shrank away. 

Like a flash the whole scene came back to Mabel. 

The gipsy wdio had defied her, and spoken words that 
could never be forgotten, w’as the same w^oman whose soft 
voice and gentle touch had soothed her during her weary 
illness. 

She felt no gratitude ; every kindly remembrance was 
obliterated, and the anger that surged in her breast left 
her pale as'm'arble, and incapable of speech. 

Mrs. Clifton, frightened at her expression, hurried to her 
side and would have taken her hand. Mabel pushed her 
away with scorn, and she sunk at her feet. 

“ Mabel, listen to mp ! for my husband’s sake I kneel, 
and implore you to forgive the words I uttered then. I was 
not myself. When you have heard all the story of my 
life, you will not blame me — you who have loved and suf- 
fered.” 


238 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


“ Loved indeed ! ” hissed Mabel, contemptuously, un- 
softened by the pleading tones and the tearful, earnest face. 

have never loved, and if I bad, how could you, a gipsy, 
a^strolling vagabond, judge of my feelings! 

“ Does the man you call my father consider my degrada- 
tion incomplete, that be insults me by sending you with a 
message ? ” 

She bad spoken rapidly, and her voice w^as loud and 
scornful. 

The tones so familiar to her father's ear arrested his pro- 
gress as he passed the door, which was partly open, and the 
last words fell on his ear clear and distinct. 

His face turned white with anger, as he glanced from 
Mabel to his wife, who w^as still kneeling. He raised her 
tenderly, though he trembled with indignation, and spite 
of her pleading look led her toward Mabel, who had stopped 
speaking on his entrance, and w^ho cowered before him. 
His voice w^as low, but the firm tones were unmistakable. 

“ Mabel, were the words I heard you use addressed to my 
wife ? If so, I insist upon an instant apology.” 

Mrs. 'Clifton started, and looked appealingly into his face 
as she gasped, — • 

“Hear Edward, I never could gain courage to tell you 
that I spoke insulting words to Mabel long ago.” 

His stern look so frightened her, that the faltering 
wmrds died on her lips. His eyes were still on Mabel’s 
face, and he spoke in the same quiet tone, though he drew 
his wdfe closer to his side. 

“ AVhen you, Mabel, so far forgot the respect due your- 
self, as to use words unbecoming a lady to your father’s 
wife, I can readily conceive that it was under an impulse 
that for the moment excused it. You now see the impro- 
priety, and, as a lady, are bound to offer the only rejoaration 
in your power t- an apology. 4 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


239 


I 


“ "When it is made, I will listen to an explanation.” 

Mabel bit her lip until the blood started, and had her 
eyes been basilisk’s, the expression would not have been 
more deadly ; but she knew too well her father’s firmness, 
when his passions were once aroused, to venture to disobey 
him. After a dead silence, during which she seemed strug- 
gling to control her anger, she said coldly, — 

“ Mrs. Clifton will, I hope, pardon the words I used. If 
she remembers the occasion to which I referred, she will 
not consider them so inappropriate. But her kindness to 
me during the last month deserved a better return, and I 
am sorry I spoke as I did.” 

There was no softening in her voice — the words were 
cold and mechanical. 

Mrs. Clifton hid her face on her husband’s shoulder, and 
Mabel resumed, — 

“As to the explanation, if there is one necessary, it 
would be doubtful whether you, sir, or myself, are the per- 
son to whom it is most justly due. 

“ If my wishes have any weight, I w^ould ask one last 
favor of you, — that I may be allowed to return to the 
United States — to our old home.” 

An expression of relief crossed Mr. Clifton’s face. He 
motioned Mabel to sit down, and with his arm still sup- 
porting his wdfe, drew her to a fauteuil. She would have 
left the room, but he seated himself beside her, and looked 
at Mabel as much as to say, “ I will hear you now.” 

She was still standing, and her face was as defiant as she 
resumed, — 

“I wish to go immediately — and from the hour I leave 
your roof, you are relieved from all further responsibility 

• on my account. At nineteen, a woman should surely be her 
own mistress ; and I wdll never again brook such an inter- 

# ference as on the night of your return. There are things 
that can neither be forgotten nor forgiven.” 


240 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


Her father had risen to his feet and stood before her. 

Slie stepped back, and her face crimsoned with passion. 

“ I mean just as I say! On that night when you delib- 
erately frustrated my plans and made my secret public, I 
vowed I would never forgive you, or touch your hand in 
kindness. And so help me Heaven I I will keep my vow I 
If there is in your heart a particle of affection for me, — if 
you would not have me hate you, as I can hate no other 
person, — allow me to go in peace. 

“ My mother’s fortune is sufficient for my wants, and in 
my old home, away from these memories that poison my 
existence, I may be able to think of you — without hatred 
at least.” 

Mr. Clifton’s face looked old and haggard. The anger 
had all vanished, and pain and grief were imprinted on his 
countenance; and he said, brokenly, — 

“ Mabel, your own act and words have cancelled the tie 
between us. As yojLi told me, my responsibility is ended, and 
may Heaven, who will judge our conduct, pardon my fail- 
ures in duty, and be merciful to you. 

“ I would implore you to think again before you cut 
yourself loose from all natural affections, but I know it 
would be in vain. If ever you have cause to regret this 
step, your father’s house, and his warmest welcome will be 
ready for you.” 

He bowed his head in the deepest sorrow, and tears that 
did not shame his manhood trickled through his fingers, 
and dropped on the carpet ; the bitterest tears that can be 
wrung from the human heart — tears born of a child’s in- 
gratitude. 

Mabel stood before him, calm and immovable in her 
purpose. No regret softened her heart ; her only feeling 
was impatience to end the interview and be away. “ Why 
should she care for his grief? Had he not ruined her \ 



MABEL CLIFTON. 


241 


It was as if she had staked her all on the cast of one 
die ; it was lost, and she yielded entirely to the spirit of 
evil. 

The rustling of her dress as she quitted the room broke 
the silence, and Mrs. Clifton knelt beside her husband, 
and drawing his bowed head on her shoulder, gave him 
the only cOmfort left him — the soothing assurance of her 
love. 

21 Q 


t 


CHAPTEE XXXIX. 


^''WO years had passed since Alice Melville and Mabel 
J- Clifton walked together in the calm beauty of an Oc- 
tober afternoon. 

Since that day, the quiet life of Alice had been un- 
marked by any striking event ; no great joys or sorrows 
had brightened or cast their shadows on her smooth, white 
forehead. After the marriage of her brother Laurence 
and pretty Annie Eaymond, she had lived with her aunt 
in the quiet old homestead that had sheltered her childhood. 

One visit to the populous Eastern city where her brother 
now resided, and a season at Newport, was the extent of 
her acquaintance with the gay world. 

Several weeks after the departure of Mabel, Laurence 
Melville received a letter from Clarence Stanly, who had 
just finished a dreary course of law at one of the Ger- 
man universities. He was now twenty-one, and declared 
his intention of being an artist ; all his leisure time had 
been devoted to his favorite pursuit, and he hoped his 
guardian would approve of his purpose. He also asked him 
to sanction his engagement with Alice, and wrote elo- 
quently of their long affection, and the incentive to re- 
nev/ed exertion such a tie would give him, &c. 

Mr. Melville was scarcely surprised; for the courtship 
of Clarence and Alice had commenced when they played 
together in childhood, and their united future had been 
thought of long before they were at an age to realize the 
grave importance of a step that seemed then such a matter 
of course. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


243 


Mr. Melville sought his sister, rather hoping sha would 
prefer leaving so important a decision until her lover’s re- 
turn. They had been separated for years, and were both 
young enough to change, even could they have been certain 
of their attachment. 

Alice was busy with an intricate piece of crocheting, and 
scarcely glanced from her work at her brother’s entrance. 
The departure of Mabel had been a sore trial, and although 
her grief was quiet, it was none the less deep. 

The faintest rose tinged her pale cheek as her lover’s 
letter was read, and she looked up inquiringly, as her 
brother seemed to expect some reply. 

• “ Well, really,” he said, laughing at her calmness, “ this 
is a most extraordinary way to receive a proposal ; from 
your manner one would suppose you had been a reigning 
belle long enough to become satiated with conquests.” 

Alice finished counting her stitches before she answered, 
and she was too glad that Laurence could laugh gayly to 
mind being the object of his mirth. 

“ Why, Laurence, what did you expect me to do ? we 
have been partially engaged for several years.” 

Laurence interrupted her with a prolonged whistle of 
astonishment, and his laugh was not so genuine in its gay- 
ety. He drew away her work and said seriously, — 

“Now, my little sister, I must tell you my opinion of 
this whole afiair — it is a piece of foolishness. I do not 
blame you, deary, or even Clarence ; you were both only 
children when he went away, and you are not yet six- 
teen. What do you know of love? — don’t interrupt me now. 
You feel a friendship for Clarence ; but friendship is not 
love, little one, and love should be the basis of an engagement. 
. “You liked each other as children; but you have each 
changed, and when you meet again, if you are bound by the 
solemn tie you now propose entering into so lightly, how will 


244 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


you face the evil which is not only possible, but highly 
probable, of finding that you are utterly unsuited? 

“You will say, ‘In that case we can easily break our en- 
gagement ; ’ but there is another view to take of the case. 
Suppose that with one of you the calm affection you now 
feel merges into love, would it be easy then, my dear sister, 
to destroy hopes that have been encouraged until life, with- 
out them, will be robbed of all its brightness ? 

His face was ashy pale, and he stopped suddenly, with 
compressed lips. 

Alice put her little hand in his, and her eyes filled with 
tears as she nestled closer to his side. He understood her 
mute attempt at comfort, and tried to smile as he smoothed 
her hair and looked fondly into her face. 

“And what does my little sister say to my reasoning? 
!N ot convinced, I see. The same old story, — 

‘ Man may argue as he ■will, 

Woman ’s of the same opinion still.’ ” 

“ Dear Laurence, you know best ; I will do as you say, 
but” — and she glanced up coaxingly — “I am not afraid 
that I will ever love any one better than Clarence ; and if 
you had read his letters to me and knew how he depends 
on my affection, you would not blame me for wishing to 
make him happy. 

“He says, this hope is all that cheers him in his. weary 
exile.” 

Her cheeks were flushed and her manner quite different 
from its usual calm. 

Laurence kissed her and said, — 

“You may be right, after all, and shall do as you please. 
Our dear father was anxious that you and Clarence should 
be married, and loved him only less than yourself ; and as 
for me, your happiness is my first wish, sweet sister.” 


MABEL CLIFTON. 245 

Two years passed, and Clarence returned to his old home, 
and the old life was resumed. 

After the first surprise at their altered appearance, and 
after Alice had overcome her shyness at the strangeness of 
his foreign manners, it scarcely seemed as if they had been 
separated. 

Alice began to listen for his step and count the hours of 
his absence. 

She was quite pretty, now that this new interest brightened 
her life ; and Clarence sketched her madonna-like face and 
thought it very fair and angelic. 

It was a pleasant afternoon in June, and they were in 
the quaint old lilacTshaded sitting-room. 

Clarence had tired of the book from which he had been 
reading aloud, and was lazily watching Alice as she sat at 
her work, her head drooping, and her slender, delicate fin- 
gers, white as snow-flakes, glancing from among the blue 
meshes of the fleecy zephyr she was fashioning. He was 
thinking what a quiet, happy future she would make for 
him. It would be summer always ; not an angry look or 
harsh tone w^ould ever break in upon his musings. 

She glanced up from her work and blushed with plea- 
sure as she met his fond, admiring look. 

He motioned her to come and sit beside him, and play- 
fully drew away her work and took possession of the busy 
fingers. 

“I begin to fear that you have one fault, Alice ; you are 
inclined to be industrious.” 

Alice smiled archly as she assured him that he was free 
from that sin. Her look said so plainly, “or any other,” 
that he laughed and stroked her hair. 

“ I haye been idle since my return ; but I have been so 
happy to live the old life over, existence for the last few 
weeks has been like a beautiful poem, or a summer- voyage 
21 * 


246 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


along a tranquil stream, with a cloudless sky above me, 
and I fancy, dear, that so it will ever seem.” 

He ceased speaking and looked away from Alice to the 
blue sky that shone through the clustering lilacs at the 
window, and Alice watched him with quickening breath. 

“Antinous was not half so beautiful,” she thought; “how 
can he love me? and yet he calls me beautiful. If he 
could See Mabel ! ” 

She sighed as that name recalled memories of her lost 
friend, aftd her heart yearned for the olden intimacy. Her 
reverie was almost as profound as her lover’s. But after 
a while she was startled, as with an exclamation of delight 
Clarence rose to his feet. 

The window reached to the floor, and the flowing lace 
curtains had been drawn aside, and standing amid the 
fleecy drapery was an exquisite figure. 

The soft lilac silk was the exact shade of the flowers that 
clustered around her, and the air was dreamy with their 
crushed fragrance. 

But, oh ! the beautiful face with the full, red lips, and 
the white lids half veiling the starry eyes, and rippling 
hair shading the ivory-like forehead ! 

Clarence stood spell-bound with admiration of the visitant 
who seemed to have been called up by his artist’s dream ; 
but the reality far surpassed his wildest fancies. 

Alice looked up, and with a cry of joy sprang forward 
and was clasped in the arms of her . friend. 

Disappointed in all her schemes, weary of the struggle 
with the world, and yet shrinking from death, Mabel had 
returned to her childhood’s home. There was one love left, 
a warm spot that cast a stray gleam of brightness over the 
desert waste of life, and made the present less intolerable. 

It was the thought of seeing her early friend, and of en- 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


247 


joying the affection that no coldness in their past intimacy 
had been sufficient to change. 

Never had her face been so softened with tenderness, as 
when she stood in the dreamy light, her arms clasped around 
Alice, and the tears trembling on her long lashes. Ambi- 
tion was over, but it was something to be loved. 

Alice clung to her with a joy and tenderness that seemed 
to change her very nature. She had never shown Clarence 
half the affection she now bestowed on her friend ; but in 
his surprise at her warmth there was mingled no jealous 
pang. 

Every faculty was absorbed in admiration of the queen- 
like girl who bent so fondly over his betrothed, oblivious 
of his presence. 

Alice at last remembered him and extended her hand, 
with her eyes still on Mabel’s face, as she said, “ This is 
Clarence, Mabel ; you must forget your childish antipathy 
and like him very much.” 

Mabel, roused from her unwonted display of sentiment, 
raised the languid white lids scornfully ; but she started, 
and a glow of surprise and pleasure lighted her face, and 
a new sensation thrilled her veins as she met an earnest, 
passionate gaze and felt her hand clasped warmly. 

She had met her fate. The color deepened on her cheek, 
and a faint smile wreathed her lips. 

Alice watched them with a faint thrill ; it must have been 
delight, and yet it was akin to pain. 

Mabel seated herself on the low divan and drew Alice 
beside her ; and Clarence brought an ottoman and sat at 
their feet. 

All his listlessness had vanished ; Alice could scarcely 
believe him the same person. His blue eyes flashed, and 
his face, as beautiful in its way as Mabel’s own, sparkled 
with animation. 


248 MABELCLIFTON. 

The sun set, and the moon lighted up the shrubbery with 
a fairy-like beauty, and brought out in bold relief the fig- 
ures on the divan. 

Clarence compared them as they sat together ; Alice like 
a pale shadow, her waxen face almost as white as her dress, 
and her pale, yellow hair looking lighter in the silvery 
glare. But Mabel was a beautiful Hebe. The moonlight 
softened her rich color to a roseate hue, and gave a tender, 
womanly grace that made her seem more a creature to be 
loved than a divinity to worship. 

Alice drew closer to Mabel and farther from her lover, 
by a kind of instinct. 

He did not notice the movement, or her silence, as he 
talked gayly wdth her friend of foreign lands, places of 
which Alice had scarcely read. 

She listened wonderingly and wearily, a kind of chill 
gathering at her heart. 

Mabel rose with a half sigh, as the gathering darkness 
and the waning moon warned her of the lateness of the 
hour. 

“See, Alice, it is eleven,” — she held up her little jewelled 
watch for her to see the hour, — “ and the carriage came 
at nine; you must not ask me to stay longer.^’ Alice 
kissed Mabel- tenderly at parting ; but the hand she gave 
her lover was so cold, he started at the touch and looked 
anxiously in her face. She smiled and called him “fool- 
ish,” and bade him “ not keep Mabel waiting.” 

■V 


CHAPTEE XL. 


A lice watched the two figures until they disappeared 
in the shrubbery. Somehow the pain at her heart 
deepened, and her step, as she ascended the stair, was slow 
and heavy. But she murmured Mabel’s name fondly, and 
chid herself that she could feel sad the night of her return. 
Mabel and Clarence wandered slowly down the flowery 
. avenue, and their gay voices floated on the perfumed air 
and reached the ear of Alice as she crouched on the low 
window-seat. They were not thinking of her, or of anything 
but each other. Life was very pleasant, and youth and 
love and hope made the dusky pathway enchanted. 

Clarence hurried to the house as the carriage drove away, 
eager to talk to Alice of her beautiful friend and their 
plans for the morrow’s pleasure. 

“ Good night, Clarence,” Alice called softly, leaning out 
of the window as her lover emerged from the shrubbery ; 
“I am too tired to talk to you.’^ 

He turned away wdth some disappointment, mingled with 
anxiety lest Alice was ill ; but his pulses thrilled at the 
recollection of Mabel’s looks and tones. He did not dream 
of being false to Alice as he thought of Mabel with an ad- 
miration his aflTection for his betrothed had never kindled. 
So beautiful and yet so simple ; so unconscious of her love- 
liness, he deemed her. Life had been pleasant before ; but 
it would be blissful now that Mabel would gild its most 
commonplace scenes with her presence. 

Alice might weep and moan in the quietness of her lonely 

249 


250 MABEL CLIFTON. 

chamber, but her artist-loyer’s heart was lost to her. Pie 
was not himself conscious of the fact ; had he dreamed of 
danger, he would never have looked on Mabel’s face again. 

But Alice saw it all ; she marked the flashing eye and 
kindling cheek, the animation that changed him from an 
indolent dreamer to an impassioned man, and seemed each 
instant to separate him farther from her. 

Pier brother’s words came back now : — 

“ But suppose that with one of you it is the love of a life- 
time?” There was one comfort, even in that hour she could 
feel it such : she would be the only sufferer. It was not as 
if Clarence had been false to her. 

She knew that when he awakened from his Elysian dream, 
and felt as she was feeling that star-lit night, that as a dear 
sister he loved her ; but that Mabel was his ideal, the one 
woman who satisfied all the longings of his nature, and 
that, while his pulses throbbed with life, die would love her. 

Alice knew that death would not bring a keener pang 
than that bitter truth. She could imagine all his despair. 
He would hide it from her ; his words would lose none of 
their kindliness ; his compassion would give additional ten- 
derness to his manner. 

The picture was too dreadful. Better a thousand times 
to be separated forever than to be united, when his affection 
was, at best, but friendship. 

She shuddered and hid her face ; but she wept no more. 

She had often felt, since his return, and as each day he 
grew dearer, that there w^ere depths in his nature she could 
not reach, aspirations she could never share. 

The more she loved him, the more she felt her want of 
sympathy with what he most cherished. 

She realized now the hopelessness of her love, and that 
it was vain to expect happiness in a future unblessed by 
that congeniality which softens the hardest lot. 


MABEL CLIFT OX. 251 

Her pleasant dream was rudely broken ; but it was better 
now than later. 

Clarence came in the morning ; Alice was weak and lan- 
guid, and shrunk from the trial before her. 

She declined seeing him at first ; but he begged so pite- 
ously to be admitted, that she relented, and he came softly 
into the darkened sitting-room. 

She could scarcely keep back the tears as he bent over 
her kindly and anxious. 

She assured him, “ It was only a headache ; she would be 
better by evening.’^ 

'“No, she wmuld not see a doctor, she only needed to be 
quiet ; aunt Clara was an excellent nurse. All she asked 
of him was to see Mabel as he had promised.” 

After some persuasion he agreed to leave her, on con- 
dition that he and Miss Clifton could return in the evening. 

Poor Alice, there was no need to feign headache after 
that interview. Her pulses throbbed to bursting, and aunt 
Clara was summoned from her silks and laces and city 
dressmaker to officiate as nurse. She was very fashionable 
and frivolous, but kind-hearted withal ; and had there been 
duties for her in life, she would have performed them. As 
it was, her existence was all carnival, and she had only re- 
turned home to prepare for another jaunt, 

Alice grew better under her judicious care, and at last 
sunk into a quiet sleep. 

It was almost evening when she awakened. She now felt 
a sorrowful calm ; the worst was over ; she was prepared for 
her trial, and determined to bear it patiently. 

They came in the early twilight — Clarence and Mabel. 
She heard their voices and Mabel’s gay laugh as they saun- 
tered up the avenue, and a sudden flush crimsoned her 
cheeks. 

It deepened on their entrance, and Clarence hurried to 


252 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


her side, his face bright with happiness and joy at her re- 
covery. 

She forced herself to smile as she met his glance. Her 
hand rested listlessly in his for an instant, and then she 
turned to welcome Mabel. 

She half started at her loveliness, and the color faded 
from her cheek; but Mabel took her in her arms and 
kissed her. 

Alice grasped her arm tightly, and a film covered her 
eyes as the fresh, dewy lips were pressed to hers. She did 
not quite lose consciousness; she heard Clarence’s wild, 
startled exclamation, and felt his strong arms enfold her. 
lie was so kind and tender, she could almost believe he 
loved her, and that the weary struggle of the last few hours 
had been a dream. 

Mabel had retreated a little distance and w^as -vvatching 
them with jealous interest as Alice unclosed her eyes. 
Clarence had borne her to a sofa, and was bending over her 
with affection and remorse^ She nestled closer to his side, 
and laying her small, white hand on his glossy curls, smiled 
happily in his face. 

He was profuse in his protestations of affection and his 
regrets. 

“He had intended coming again in the afternoon to sit 
with her, notwithstanding her cruelty in the morning ; but 
somehow the time had passed so rapidly, talking of other 
lands.” Alice sighed and buried her face in the cushions 
of the couch. 

Before Clarence could speak again, a strain of music 
floated on the air ; low and thrilling at first, and then burst- 
ing into a rich, wild melody, entrancing their very senses. 

The music ceased, and Mabel came softly to the sofa 
where Alice was reclining and knelt beside her. 

Alice shrunk from her touch, although she still loved 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


253 


her friend. There was a shadow of distrust in her hearL 
The unwonted tenderness was not so welcome. It seemed 
as if Mabel were playing a part ; she could not return her 
caresses, and whispered at last, as she unclasped her hand : 

“Give us some more music, Mabel dear.” 

^ There was a shadow on Mabel’s face as she rose to her 
feet. Clarence had not stirred at her approach, and he did 
not look up as she turned away ; but after a little hesitation 
he followed her to the piano. 

For more than an hour she played ; now a joyous strain, 
and then a low, plaintive melody that seemed laden with 
tears ; and still Clarence sat watching the changes of her 
eloquent face, wrapped in dreams born of the witching 
tones. 

Alice was forgotten. She had thought herself prepared 
for the change ; but the tears fell fast over her pale cheeks 
and bedewed her slender fingers as she watched the two 
friends she had lo-ved from childhood. 

There was somehow a feeling of pity for Clarence, a long- 
ing to shield him, as if some evil threatened his life. 

Mabel’s face was turned toward the handsome artist, and 
her beautiful eyes were raised to his, and then veiled by 
the long lashes that rested on her crimson cheek. Her 
dress was pure w’hite, soft and floating in its texture, and 
there were no gems to set ofi‘ Iier exquisite loveliness. 

Suddenly there came to Alice a vision of that scene in 
the wood and the words of the Gipsy, — 

“ Distrust her most when she is smiling ; she will bring 
the trial of your life.” 

But it was as if the words were spoken to Clarence. A 
deadly terror for him rose in her heart and chilled her 
veins. He had risen and was bending over Mabel, so low 
that the short, thick curls of his hair almost touched her 
cheek. > 

22 


254 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


“Was it too late to save him? She could at least make 
his life tranquilly happy.” 

Scarcely conscious, and without the power to control the 
fear that urged her, she hurried forward. Her light step 
fell noiselessly on the thick carpet, and she was almost be- 
side them, when the darkness closed round her, and the 
figures grew indistinct. She stretched out her arms and 
called wildly, — 

“ Clarence, Clarence, oh I let me save you !” 

He sprang to his feet, pale with fright, and hurried to 
her side. Her head fell heavily on his arm, and cheek and 
lip were like marble. 

“ Merciful heaven ! she is dead,” he groaned, totally un- 
nerved for an instant ; and Mabel, after one glance at his 
agonized face and the drooping form of Alice, sunk trem- 
bling into a chair and tried to shut out the fearful vision. 

She heard Clarence call for assistance, and hurried foot- 
steps to and fro overhead, but she dared not stir. 

All the dreadful past came thronging back, as if the 
present were not enough. This was like the night of her 
mother’s death ; but there was no one now to comfort her. 

She had never pined for love before ; hearts had been 
laid at her feet, and she had felt no throb of pity as she 
turned away. But she would not turn away now ; the love 
and sympathy of one human being would be worth all the 
world. 

Minutes seemed hours ; but at last her solitude was bro- 
ken. A kind voice sounded in her ear, and a shawl wag 
wrapped about her shivering form. 

Her pulses thrilled wildly at the touch, and she raised 
her face and met the earnest gaze of Clarence. 

She could not ask of Alice, but he understood her mute 
appeal and told her, “ that Alice had only fainted; the 
physician assured him she would soon be well.” 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


255 


Mabel’s face brightened, and the color came back to her 
cheek. 

She stole a timid glance from under her drooping 
lashes and extended her hand. Clarence hesitated an 
instant ; but she raised her tearful eyes to his face, and 
he stooped and pressed his lips passionately to her beau- 
tiful taper fingers as he clasped her hand in both his* 
own. 




CHAPTEK XLI. 


M abel sat long at her window that night, her hair un- 
bound and enveloping her like a cloud, and her cheek 
resting on her hand. All the past, with its ambitions, its 
triumphs, and failures, seemed fading from her like the 
memory of a dream, and the present was filled with a quiet 
joy that lulled her weary soul. 

She had passed from the whirlpool of passion to a haven 
of rest, and the future stretched out calm and beautiful. 

What spell was it that brought peace to her in the old 
home? The very air seemed laden with gladness, and her 
pulse thrilled with an ecstasy she had never felt before. 
She was thinking of a face that had lifted all the shadows 
from her life, and given new hope to an existence that was 
horrible in its stagnation. There was a spell in those blue 
eyes that awakened all that was womanly in her nature, an 
influence she had never felt before. 

For Laurence Melville her kindest feeling did not amount 
to more than a passive liking ; and Mr. Seldon had exerted 
a species of fascination to which she had yielded, because it 
was the only interest in her life. 

The others were tools she despised before tliey were fairly 
won; all, except Count von Stresenthral ; she could not 
despise him, weak as he had shown himself, — and she 
had felt a fierce yearning for the power to win the true, 
lasting love of such a man. It wa& bitterness to feel it was 
only the spell of her rare beauty that won them for a time; 
but there was no bitterness in her heart as she sat so quietly 

256 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


257 


looking out on the stars, and recalling the last scene in 
the parlor, when Clarence Stanley came to her in her lone- 
liness, — of Alice she did not think • — a stronger interest 
had crept into her daily life, and her friend was forgotten. 

She could almost have prayed, her heart was so softened ; 
but the impulse passed away, and the blessing that might 
have rested on her new life was unasked. 

Days and weeks passed and lengthened into months. 

Autumn was painting the woods with gorgeous hues, and 
a blue, misty light hung over the landscape, and tinged the 
far-off hills with the shadowy haze that artists love. 

Even to Alice the time had passed happily. Mabel was 
so like a spirit of gladness, and after the first few days had 
regained her old power of fascination. 

In her love, Alice had forgotten her jealousy, and Cla- 
rence was not more ready to do homage to Mabel’s beauty 
and talents than herself. 

Her desire to leave them grew each day more faint, and 
they were like three happy children, enjoying to the full 
the present, without a thought of the future. 

The first change was in Clarence ; he became pale and 
thoughtful at times, and then extravagantly gay. Alice 
scarcely thought of what the change might portend ; she 
was rather a passive character, but seldona roused. Her 
jealousy allayed, she had almost forgotten it ever ex- 
isted. 

But to Mabel the change came like a sudden shock, half 
bliss, half pain. 

She had not asked herself, if it was love for Clarence 
Stanley that made the world so beautiful and threw a 
charm over the simplest pleasures; her happiness was too 
perfect ; she did not wish to think. 

When Clarence was moody, her spirits were only gayer, 
22* R 


258 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


and in the triumph of charming away his melancholy she 
would forget to wonder at the cause. But after a while 
she could not but mark his coldness and avoidance of her- 
self; his eyes never sought hers now, and if she persisted 
in attracting his attention, the coldness of his look struck 
her with a sudden terror. 

Of Alice as a rival she had never thought with anything 
but a smjle of derision. The engagement was a safeguard 
and keptbff the enclaircissement that in all her mother love- 
affairs had ended their interest. 

The knowledge had slowly come that her happiness was 
not in her own keeping. Her arts availed her nothing now. 
Clarence admired her only when she was simple and wo- 
manly ; and in the battle that went on silently day by day 
she was the loser. The passions that had lain dormant so 
long awakened, and the servants found their mistress as 
tyrannical and hard to please as in other days. 

Still, Alice was unsuspicious and saw no change in either 
of her companions. 

They had been wandering in the woods one beautiful 
afternoon, and sat down to rest, with the tassels of the birch 
waving above them from the mossy rocks, and a rippling 
stream at their feet. 

Mabel was in a bitter mood; her summer had ended, and 
she had no future. She looked pale and weary, and her 
hands were folded listlessly. Alice, for once, was rosy and 
animated, and Mabel turned from the reflection of her 
bright face in the water, and thought of the changes in her 
own life, — her husband, and the fatal barrier that cut her 
adrift from the hope that might have brightened her life. 
Alice grew tired of the silence and strolled away by herself 
to gather mosses, and the two were left alone. Mabel was 
startled from her painful reverie by a hurried footstep, and 
Clarence threw himself beside her on the mossy log. She 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


259 


was willing to forget the past in the present ; but the face 
into which she looked was wdiite and rigid, and the eyes 
gloomy and resolute. She turned half away with a feeling 
of angry disappointment; but her heart softened at the 
sound of his voice. 

“ Mabel, do not turn from me to-day ; I have something 
I must tell you now, while it will be no sin. — You have 
made this summer so happy, that in the future it will be 
the one bright spot in my life — the future that bah never 
be blessed wdth your love.” 

He rose with fierce energy. “Oh ! it kills me to tell you ; 
but we must never meet again after this hour ! ” Her face 
was white as his own, and she clasped his hands in terror. 
“You do not mean it, Clarence; you will not be so cruel. 
I have no other friend, I am alone in the world!” He 
tried to withdraw his hands, but she only clung the closer, 
her white face raised to his own. 

He turned away with a groan. “Mabel,” he said, sooth- 
ingly, “you would not have me perjure myself ; I am bound 
to Alice — we have been engaged for years. If I do not 
love her as wildly as I love you, Mabel, I at least ” — He 
again turned away, he could not endure the anguish de- 
picted on her countenance. He had not dreamed that she 
loved him so dearly, and he shrunk appalled from the trial 
his duty pointed out. With the woman he loved clinging 
to him in despair, how could he be resolute? Minutes 
passed ; he would feel that he had courage to be firm ; but 
one glance at Mabel’s face, still inflexible in its resolve, and 
he would falter. 

“Mabel,” he said at last, looking wistfully into her up- 
turned face, “have you no mercy? you will help me to do 
what is right. I never could be happy, even with your 
love, were I to be -guilty of the deliberate sin of deserting 
Alice — dear Alice; think, how she loves you, Mabel. 


260 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


“ Let iio do what is right, darling, and God will bless 
us!” 

His tone was solemn, and he looked inspired. Mabel 
withdrew her hands. 

There was a long silence, and she at last rose and stood 
before him, and her words Were cold and harsh in their 
tone, — 

“ It is your fixed resolve to marry Alice ? ” 

“ It is, Mabel,” he said, resolutely. 

‘‘And yet you love me ? ” 

He did not answer, for Alice stood before them. Her 
light step had fallen noiselessly on the grassy turf. Cla- 
rence trembled and shrunk back as if he had been a crimi- 
nal, and Mabel turned toward her with an air of angry 
defiance. 

Alice understood it all at a glance, and her heart 
throbbed wildly for a moment, and then she w’as perfectly 
calm. The rose-tint faded from her cheek, but it was 
scarcely paler than was its wmnt. 

“ Clarence,” she said, sweetly. He turned at the sound 
and grasped her extended hand. “ I know what you would 
have hidden from me in your mistaken kindness — -I know that 
you love Mabel.” She raised her truthful eyes to his troubled 
face and added: “We are unsuited to each other, dear 
Clarence ; I could never have made you happy, or been 
happy myself as your wife ; I have felt it for some time I 
And now Iwish you both all the happiness this world can give.” 
She turned suddenly from him and glided rapidly dowm 
the path through the forest ; and as he stood like one in a 
dream, watching her retreating figure, she stopped, waved 
her hand, and turned her smiling face toward them, and 
then disappeared in the dense shrubbery. A flood of tears 
bedewed her face and blinded her eyes as she hurried along ; 
but Clarence and Mabel were not there to see, and she 
could weep now to her heart’s content. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


261 


They were not altogether bitter tears. She had spoken 
truly when she told Clarence she had long felt they were 
unsuited to each other ; but her heart was heavy, and the 
great interest of her life was ended. 

It was a trial to leave Mabel ; she could not but love 
her still, although she had cared so little for her ha,ppiness. 

Again the fear for Clarence returned as she thought of ^ 
the Gipsy’s prophecy. “Was it right,” she asked herself, 
tearfully, “ to desert him, as she did by releasing him from 
his engagement ? ” and then her grief returned with tenfold 
force. But it was for Clarence she grieved — her dear, 
kind friend ; — not so much grief that their paths would be 
separate, as that in his new destiny there would be trials 
she could not smooth for him. 

It was more as a sister she had loved him, after all. Her 
heart ached at the thought of the rude awakening from the 
enchantment with which he had invested Mabel. 

He was one of those sensitive persons who seem born only 
for sunshine, and women w^ere to him angels ; he had seen 
them only gentle and loving. 

It would break his heart, Alice thought, if Mabel were 
ever to look at him as she had looked at her but a little 
. while before. 


CHAPTER XLIL 


"rTTHEN Clarence turned again to Mabel, after the last 
V Y glimpse of the smiling face of Alice, he was startled at 
the change. She was transformed from a Xiobe to a blush- 
ing Hebe ; her eyes sparkled with animation, and cheek 
and lip were crimsoned with a joyful triumph. 

At a bound he was by her side, with her hands clasped 
tightly, and her lovely face resting on his shoulder. Alice, 
all the world besides, were forgotten in the delight of that 
hour of bliss. 

Mabel could not forget so easily. There was a hurried 
vision of two other scenes in her life : one, when she told 
Laurence Melville falsely that she loved him, and with her 
very soul revolting from his caresses. The other of a sunny 
morning, in a far-off Western town, and a dark, earnest face 
beaming with devotion. The memory thrilled her for a 
moment, and she looked up quickly, half expecting to meet 
the impassioned gaze of his flashing eyes. 

She saw, instead, a face as perfect in its exquisite contour 
as that of sculptured Antinous, and blue, tender eyes, all 
softness and beauty, smiled upon her, exorcising all past 
visions. 

The evening shadows lengthened, and the forest closed 
behind them dark and mysterious in its gloom. Mabel 
looked back with a shudder, and the past threw its shadows 
over the present and darkened the future. Clarence fol- 
lowed the direction of her eyes and said dreamily, — 

“ How gay and beautiful the wood was but a few houi-s 
ago, and now so dismal.” 


262 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


2G3 


Mabel drew closer to him as she thought, how his words 
applied to her own destiny. It had been full of bliss but 
an hour before ; but her husband might appear any mo- 
ment, and then love and hope would be forever past. 

“ Come away, Clarence, it frightens me, the gloom and 
the stillness.” 

He laughed gayly ; but looking into her face, saw it 
was pale, and that there was a look of terror in her large 
eyes. 

He walked on, talking soothingly of the future ; but the 
shadow still rested on Mabel’s face. 

“ My darling, I do not like to see you unhappy ; what is 
it troubles you?” he said, tenderly, stopping and drawing 
her closer to him. 

She did not answer at first, and then her anxiety gave a 
coldness to her manner as she said wildly, — 

“Oh, I cannot tell; it frightened me, the horrible gloom 
of that forest. It seemed ominous ; — do not talk to me, 
I am too miserable to answer ! ” 

Surprised and pained at something in her manner and 
tone, he continued his walk in siIeSE?e. 

She grew calmer as they entered^ the town, but seemed 
ill at ease and kept her face concealed by her veil. 

He paused at the gate leading to the home of Alice. 
Mabel drew back. 

“ I do not wish to see Alice to-night,” she said, coldly. 

“ But she will think strange if we do not stop, dear Ma- 
bel ; I ask it as a particular favor,” Clarence urged ; but 
she still refused, this time with an angry emphasis, as she 
withdrew her hand from his arm. 

“ You can remain if you wish,” she said at last, her voice 
chillingly haughty ; but in another instant her hand was 
laid coaxingly on his arm, and she murmured softly, — 

“ Do not be angry with me to-night, Clarence ; I do not 


264 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


mean unkindly to Alice; to-morrow we will go together 
and see her.” Clarence could not resist the pleading tones, 
and Alice waited in vain for their coming. He wondered 
if she would miss them, and sighed as he pictured her lone- 
liness. ‘‘ Dear, unselfish Alice,” he thought, tenderly ; yet 
he could not have told why he considered her unselfish in 
this instance. 

The remainder of the walk home was not particularly 
agreeable ; although having made the sacrifice for Mabel, 
he was determined not to show how her conduct disappointed 
him. But there was a gravity in his manner Mabel did 
not like ; at any other time she would have resented his 
thinking of Alice and her happiness in opposition to her 
merest caprice ; but she was very much in love with him, 
and it was rather soon to show her power. 

The parlors were brilliantly lighted, and the cheerful 
glow seemed to welcome them as it lighted the avenue and 
shone on their path. 

Mabel’s spirits rose, and Clarence forgot in her gay sal- 
lies that there were duties or cares in life. 

He had worshipped her beauty at a distance, and thought 
it too much for a poor artist’s aspirations ; but now this 
queenly creature seemed to exist only in his smiles. 

She left him, after they reached the parlor; and be- 
fore the smile her parting words had calfed up Avas ban- 
ished, she was with him again, sparkling as a star, — her 
dress an amber-colored satin that glittered with every mo- 
tion of her superb figure, and jewels flashed amid the braids 
of her glossy hair and on her snowy arms, and all the rich- 
ness was in keeping with her perfect beauty. 

Clarence would have been content to kneel at her feet, 
and with all his artist’s soul admire her exquisite loveliness; 
Pygmalion could not have been more entranced with the fault- 
less marble his hand had chiselled. But this queenly crea- 


MABEL CLIFTON. 265 * 

tiire nestled close to his side, and her wondrous eyes sought 
his with a pleading look of timid love. 

Had she been Lamia, and had death lurked in her ca- 
resses, he would have welcomed her embrace. 

]\Iemory in after-years often recalled that evening, and 
the delirium that steeped his soul in ecstasy. 

Alice sat alone in her room, with the bitterest pang her 
heart had yet known. 

“I loved them both so dearly ; I'would notstandjbetween 
Mabel and happiness at the first, when, at a word, Clarence 
would have gone away, and now they forget me in their joy ! ” 

She wept over her wasted friendship as we weep over the 
coffined forms of those we lovej 

Clarence tliought of her as the light from her windo^V 
glanced through the darkness ; but he had promised Mabel 
to wait until morning, and he drowned the remorse at his 
heart with the new hopes that brightened his life. 

Morning came ; but in MabeFs smiles and welcome he 
forgot that Alice existed, as Mabel was determined he 
should, and the hours flew by as if laden with enchantment. 

In the afternoon their Elysian dream was interrupted by 
visitors. Clarence withdrew to the seclusion of the heavily 
draped window. He was longing for brush and canvas, 
that he might transfer Mabel’s attitude and look, when the 
name of Alice startled him into full remembrance of his 
cruel neglect. 

They had played together in childhood, with the unre- 
strained intercourse of brother and sister ; the same house 
had sheltered them both, and the same interests united 
them. 

After the formal announcement of their engagement and 
his ^return, he had taken lodgings as a mere formality, for 
the old home seemed as naturally his own as ever. 

23 


‘266 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


He looked at liis watch ; it was four. “ Poor Alice!” he 
thought, with a groan. 

Mabel came to him, on the departure of her visitors, gay 
and smiling ; but his stern face did not clear at her ap- 
proach, and he spoke with an air of decision, — 

“Are you going with me to see Alice? AYe must start 
at once ! ” 

“Certainly, sir; are there any other commands your 
august highness will do me the honor to express ? ” 

“Nay, Mabel, I beg your pardon if I spoke authorita- 
tively,” and he seized her reluctant hand and tried to look 
in her averted face. 

“Think how shamefully we have neglected Alice; we do 
not even know that she reached home safely — it was a 
lonely road. — Good heaven ! Mabel, you are not crying?” 

She withdrew herself proudly and turned to the window. 

“ How have I offended you, dear Mabel ; will you not 
tell me?” he said, humbly; but he made no attempt to 
follow her. She turned slowly, and there were tears on 
her glowing cheeks as she extended her hand. 

“It is Alice you love, not me. You may go to her now, 
but I cannot go with you.” 

He kissed away the tears and fondly reassured her, de- 
lighted that it was jealousy, after all, that had caused his 
darling to appear ungrateful and unkind to dear little 
Alice, and in explanations and endearments the time passed 
until dinner, and it was in the beautiful gleam of early 
moonlight that they at last sauntered down the avenue. 


CHAPTER XLIIL 



LICE rose, after a sleepless night, reconciled to the 


-TL change in her destiny, and without any bitter feeling' 
toward Clarence ^nd Mabel ; she could even make excuses 
for their absence the evening before. 

“ Clarence, who was so kind and thoughtful to every one, 
had some good reason for his apparent neglect. Laurence 
could as soon be unmindful of her happiness.” 

Still no reasoning could allay the dull pain that made her 
heart throb wearily ; and -glancing at the mirror, she saw 
reflected a pale, haggard face, destitute of beauty. 

She sighed as she thought it mattered little, her looks ; 
Mabel would be all brightness. 

Hours passed, but the two friends for whose appearance 
she waited so eagerly came not. 

It was in vain she tried to read or work ; she started at 
every sound, and trembled if a footstep crossed the floor. 

A sickening disappointment gathered at her heart as she 
felt that in their happiness they had ceased to care for 
her. They would not come that day, perhaps. 

Her quiet self-control deserted her, and she rose hastily; 
in the seclusion of her own room she would, at least, be 
safe from any criticising eyes. 

A servant met her as she crossed the threshold. 

“Here is your mail. Miss Alice,” he said, handing her a 
package of letters. 

A flush of joy lighted her sad face as she caught sight 
of one in the familiar writing of her brother Laurence. 

It was not lengthy, but full of love and tenderness. He 


268 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


wrote that he was coming to take her home with him, and 
would listen to no denial. 

“Annie has not been well since the death of our little 
Alice. Your presence will cheer her, and I long for you, 
little sister ; no one can ever take your place in my heart.” 

His loving words were like balm to her wounded spirit, 
and the prospect of change made her almost happy. 

She was busily engaged in preparations for departure, 
when a despatch came. It was dated from a neighboring 
city and signed “ Laurence.” 

Her heart beat a little quicker as she read, — 

“ I am detained by business. Have Clarence escort you, 
and come to-day without fail.” 

“Alas ! she no longer had a right to claim the protection 
of Clarence.” But the necessity of immediate exertion left 
her no time for regrets. 

But when the last trunks were strapped and corded, and 
her travelling toilette completed, she had leisure to sorrow 
over the neglect of her friends, and to hope they would yet 
come, if only to say farewell. 

The sound of wheels put an end to expectation, and writ- 
ing a hasty “ good-bye ” to Clarence and Mabel, she en- 
tered the carriage. 

She was very quiet during the journey, never once raising 
her veil. Even the thought of seeing Laurence did not 
quicken her pulses. Her life seemed aimless and barren 
of interest. 

Her brother did not meet her at the station. Taking it 
for granted Clarence would accompany her, he devoted 
himself to the law-suit in which he was engaged, satisfied 
with the hope of meeting Alice at noon. 

Alice had no reason to complain of her welcome then. 
His delight at seeing her was very evident, and she could 
not but rejoice that he was so occupied with business, that 


MABEL C 1. 1 F T O N. 


269 


he failed to notice the change in her ma-nner, and that, after 
his first surprise and disappointment at the absence of Cla- 
rence, he forgot that he had expected him. 

The greetings over, he took a roll of papers from his 
pocket and was instantly absorbed in the contents. 

It was so like the old times at home, that Alice half 
smiled as she watched him, and happening to glance up 
from his papers just then, he said heartily, — 

“ It does me good to see you, Alice, it does indeed ; ” and 
a minute after her presence was forgotten. 

He talked some during dinner, but principally of Annie, 
and when the meal was over, hurried again to the court- 
room. 

After tea he left her for a while to make arrangements 
for their early departure the next day. 

Alice dreaded his return and the tete-ii-tete-conversatiou 
during the long evening; but no dreading could avert it, 
and before she thought to see him again, he came gayly 
into the room, and taking her hands, looked affectionately 
into her face. 

She smiled at first, then her lip quivered, and the tears 
dimmed her eyes; and laying her head on his shoulder, she 
wept as if she had just realized her trouble. 

Laurence drew her to a sofa, without attempting a word 
of consolation ; but his strong arm encircled her tenderly, 
and the assurance of his love and sympathy soothed her 
inexpressibly. “Here was one friend who would never 
grieve or disappoint her trust ! ’’ 

After a while she grew calm. First she slipped her hand 
into his and half raised her head from his shoulder, and 
reassured by a pressure of his arm, found courage to look 
into his face. 

It was grave and questioning, and there was no appeal 
from the confession she must now make. 


23 * 


270 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


“You have something to tell me, Alice,” he said, kindly 
and encouragingly; and with his truthful eyes helping her, 
she told him all her little story. 

His color changed at Mabel’s name, but he made no 
comment, and heard his sister through quietly. When she 
had finished, he folded her in his arms in silence. After a 
while he stooped and kissed her, and she found that his 
face was wet with tears. 

He had expected, at the worst, to hear of a trivial mis- 
understanding ; but no explanations or concessions could 
restore the love now given to another. That Alice, w^hose 
affections w^ere so intensified with her quiet nature, should 
meet a trial that would wreck her happiness, w^as more 
than he could bear. 

How could she, so gentle and dependent on those she 
loved, endure a disappointment whose bitterness the great- 
est strength of will could only mitigate? All his philos- 
ophy had not enabled him to overcome his love for Mabel 
and the distress her desertion caused ; spite of his resolution 
and wedded happiness, the remembrance still embittered 
his life. 

He could offer no consolation, and he released Alice and 
turned away with a groan. 

“Is it for me you grieve, Laurence?” said a soft voice, 
and Alice twined her arms timidly around his neck. “ I 
shall not be unhappy, dear brother, lonely for a while, per- 
haps ; but you told me truly long ago, do you remember ? 
You said, Hhat friendship was not love.’ ” 

V He looked searchingly into her fiice ; she blushed under 
his scrutiny, but said steadily, — 

“I am not quite sure what love is, but I think, if I had 
lo^ed Clarence in that way, I should not feel so kindly 
toward him now. I think it would be more natural to hate 
him a little, and I like him just as well; all I care for is 
that he forgets me so easily, and the strangeness — ” 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


271 


She smiled through her tears and relapsed into another 
cry on her brother’s shoulder. Such a load was taken from 
his heart that he was quite in spirits, and by way of giving 
her comfort, took upon himself to argue the wrong side of 
the question, and made it evident that Clarence and Mabel 
— he winced at the name — acted in the most natural 
manner, taking into consideration they were lovers, and 
that lovers were proverbially selfish and in a state of mild 
lunacy, at the best, — and with such a happy mixture of 
humor and kindliness, that she smiled, at first rather pen- 
sively, and finally laughed outright. 

All through the evening he kept her interested and 
amused, and when she sought her own room at a late hour, 
she was quite cheerful, and thought more of her journey on 
the morrow, the meeting with Annie, and the pleasure of 
seeing her brother daily, than of her broken engagement 
and beautiful friend. 


CHAPTEK XLIV. 


LARE.NCE STANLEY’S thoughts were not of the most 



VJ enviable nature as Mabel and himself walked slowly 
along in the delicious autumn-evening. Regret that he 
should have neglected his little friend who, in all her life, 
had never treated him unkindly, struggled with the strange- 
ness of his position. 

Mabel seemed unconscious of embarrassment or feeling 
of any kind ; but as Clarence seemed disinclined to talk, 
she thought it best to respect his mood. 

But cold and heartless as she was, she uttered an excla- 
mation of dismay as the house loomed up before them, dark 
and sombre. Clarence was speechless with surprise and 
apprehension, and the minutes seemed hours until his ring 
was answered. 

But the housekeeper’s cheerful face allayed his fears. 
She escorted them to the parlor, and before leaving them 
handed Clarence the note Alice had written. 

The lin^ were traced hurriedly, and the tears came 
even to Mabel’s eyes as she read, leaning over her lover’s 
shoulder, — 

“My dear friends! My only regret in leaving home is 
that I go without seeing you. 

“ That heaven may bless you both is the most earnest 
prayer of your loving friend, Alice.” 

It was long before Clarence spoke, and Mabel was soft- 
ened by this last display of unselfish affection. 

“ Dear little Alice,” she said, involuntarily, after a long 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


273 


summary of her past kindness and love which she felt then 
she had so little deserved. Clarence looked up at the 
words, and the tears in the beautiful eyes of his darling 
tightened the links her fascinations had woven. 

‘‘Alice is an angel, Clarence ; how could you leave her 
for me?” It was the real sentiment of her heart, and she 
received her lover’s passionate protestations with a mourn- 
ful smile and a paling cheek. 

It seemed as if the veil that hid her wickedness was drawn 
aside, and she saw her conduct depicted in the most loath- 
some colors. A woman who deliberately encouraged the 
affection of her dearest friend’s betrothed! That was dark 
enough to contemplate; but there were darker shades. She 
was not entitled to the affection she had stolen; she de- 
ceived even the man she loved. He would turn from her 
in horror, could he know that she was the wife of another. 
Her very soul sickened with a loathing of herself. She 
looked dowm on her lover’s face, so fair it was as if no sin 
had ever disturbed its calm beauty. 

“Clarence,” she said, passionately, her face white and 
rigid, “I am not worthy of your love; we must part now! 
No, do not tempt me — go! while I have the courage to 
tell you,” — she almost shrieked as he attempted to take 
her hand. 

“AYill you listen to me, Mabel?” he said slowly and sol- 
emnly. “ I love you ! Do you know what those words 
mean? Were you the most wicked person living; were 
your hands stained with the blood of a human being, I 
would still love you ; through evil and good report, mine own 
forever! He took her in his arms, and the struggle with her 
conscience faded as she looked in his face, so dear it was 
that now, in the first glow of the only strong affection that 
had ever stirred the cold depths of her heart into warmth, 
she could have yielded even ambition for his sake. 

S 


274 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


That night she mused long over her future, and the trials 
that stood in the way of her “ modest hopes,” as she termed 
them. 

Clarence told her of his prospects in the future that he 
asked her to share, — a competency, nothing more ; — but 
he hoped to gain both fame and fortune. The old demons, 
Pride and Ambition, tugged fiercely at her heart again ; 
true, she had failed, most pitiably failed. With every gift 
a mortal could covet, — beauty, talents, and manners unsur- 
passed for grace, — yet her marriage had been the barrier to 
success. But love silenced every other impulse, and before 
she laid her head on her pillow, the letter was written that 
would open the way toward freeing her from the hateful 
bonds that had thwarted her ambition, and now stood in 
the way of her love ; and while her heart was still softened, 
she wrote to Alice a letter so kind and loving, that, reading 
it over afterwards, she could scarcely believe she had writ- 
ten it. 

Clarence came in the morning, and with her smiling 
face near him, wrote a long letter to Alice which he enclosed 
in Mabel’s. 

The news of their engagement excited no little surprise, 
and the pride Clarence might otherwise have felt at having 
won a lady so beautiful and admired as Miss Clifton, was 
tempered by the thought of the probable comments on his 
broken engagement. 

But he had one comfort : Mabel was not an heiress, like 
Alice ; no one could accuse him of interested motives. 

Months passed, and one gloomy day’ in March Mabel re- 
ceived from her lawyer the welcome news that her divorce 
had been effected, without creating any stir or excitement. 
There was no opposition. Mr. Seidon had left the village 
— now grown into a thriving, populous town — shortly 
after herself, and had not since returned. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


275 


She was now entitled to her old name, and free to decide 
her own destiny. 

After the first throb of pleasure, she sat gloomy and silent, 
the letter clasped listlessly, and her eyes fixed on the fire. 

Clarence had been watching her so intently, he had for- 
gotten that his own letter lay unopened on the table before 
him. Startled at first by Mabel’s joyful exclamation, and 
then riveted by the change in her face, — 

“ Have you bad news, Mabel?” heat last said, anxiously. 

No,” she answered, without changing her position, or 
looking toward him ; and with a sigh he broke the seal of 
his letter. 

It was from Laurence Melville, and the contents so sur- 
prised and startled him, that he forgot Mabel’s coldness and 
said gayly, — 

“ Mabel, prepare for a ’wonderful surprise. I am almost 
ready to take up my juvenile faith and believe in the Ara- 
bian nights.” 

Mabel deigned a slight show of interest, and he teasingly 
insisted that she should guess, and the most improbable 
event imaginable, if she hoped to succeed. 

His gayety was irresistible ; the cloud left MabeFs brow 
as she joined in his mirth, and they were as merry as two 
children. 

Mabel at last laughingly declared “ that she had ex- 
hausted her imagination, and that he would find her unen- 
durably stupid for a month to come, at least, if he kept her 
mental powers longer on the stretch. 

“And to prevent such a direful result,” he assured her, 
“ was his only object in gratifying her curiosity so soon.” 

He expected surprise ; but Mabel sat like one stupefied, 
the color coming and going in her face, and her hands 
grasping the letter so tightly, that the blue veins showed 
distinctly on their white surface. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


S EVERAL weeks had passed since the evening that Alice 
told her brother of her broken engagement. The new 
life and the kind welcome and love that surrounded her 
with an atmosphere of tenderness, softened her sorrow, and 
enabled her to attain a quiet cheerfulness. She felt she 
would be a most ungrateful, wicked person, undeserving of 
the many blessings God had given her, could she repine. 

The letters that reached her a few days after her de- 
parture removed the only drop of bitterness that lingered 
in her quiet sorrow, if such it could be called. 

Laurence and his wife were not seeing much of the gay 
world, in consequence of the death of their little girl ; but 
they found a friend to chaperon Alice, and she saw enough 
of society and dissipation to keep her mind occupied. 

Under the direct supervision of Annie, and with the 
assistance of hairdresser and maid, she had just completed 
her toilette for a grand party, given in honor of a distin- 
guished foreigner. 

Annie surveyed her admiringly and said : “ If she w^as 
not the belle of the evening, it would be only because she 
^Yas too modest to attract attention.” 

And she certainly looked beautiful enough to warrant the 
most extravagant praise. 

The rose-colored tulle, festooned with buds over a rich 
silk of the same hue, gave a lovely tinge to her usually pale 
cheek, and the graceful arrangement of her light-brown 
hair added piquancy to her beauty ; she was less the saint 
and more the woman. 


276 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


277 


There was a half timid modesty in her air that was irre- 
sistibly winning, that set off her fresh beauty with a grace 
as charming as the emerald veil thrown around the moss- 
rose. 

Laurence was in his cosy library, revelling in all the de- 
lights of dressing-gown and slippers and his favorite author. 

He gave a half sigh of contentment as a silk dress rustled 
near him, and read wdth renewed satisfaction. 

“Good night,” said Alice, softly. 

He paused in turning a leaf. 

“Ah! sure enough, you are going to the party, — good 
night,” and he resumed his reading, without looking up. 

“ What an uncivilized lawyer you are ! ” said his wife, 
laughingly, laying her hand on the book. 

He smiled good-humoredly in her face as he said, with 
an air of mock alarm, — 

“What faux pas have I been guilty of now? Oh, I 
understand : Alice, I wish you success I ” 

“Worse and worse!” exclaimed Annie; “you have not 
looked at her.” 

“Sure enough! I beg your pardon, ladies. Come, Alice.” 

She advanced, blushing and radiant, and he surveyed her 
with all a brother’s pride. 

“ I had no idea you were so pretty, Alice ; ” and then he 
added slyly : “Alas ! for that noble Hon, or Grand Mogul, 
— I am not quite sure I have his title — but he is a lost 
man ! ” 

Alice laughingly assured him “that she had no idea the 
lion of the evening would even look at her.” 

She looked at him, however. He was the first object that 
arrested her attention, amid all the confusion of lights and 
flowers and gay dresses ; the crowds passing and repassing, 
her eye returned to the one object with a singular interest. 

24 


278 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


He was tall and graceful in figure, and liis gray eyes 
flashed with an animation that fairly transformed his face at 
times ; but when not speaking or interested, there was a 
W'eary, hopeless expression that touched the heart of Alice ; 
it added to her interest a gentle sympathy. She wondered 
what trouble he could have known. It was not that he 
had loved vainly — no woman could resist his love. 

Absorbed in her interesting romance, she stood with 
downcast eyes, unmindful of the gayety around her, until 
startled at the sound of her name. She looked up, and the 
blood rushed in a torrent to her face as she saw before her 
the object of her thoughts, and her chaperon said, smil- 
iiigly» — 

“ Miss M[elville, Lord Richland requests the honor of an 
introduction.” 

Her heart beat painfully, and provoked at her unwonted 
emotion, she made a strong effort at self-possession and 
bowed with her usual quiet grace. 

It was some time before she mustered sufiicient courage 
to raise her downcast eyes, or converse with any degree of 
fluency. 

In her embarrassment she forgot that the Earl’s attention 
rendered her the observed of all observers. Her modest 
demeanor disarmed criticism as he led her to the dance, 
and the most envious of the disappointed belles could not 
dislike a rival who bore her triumph so timidly. 

Poor Alice could only think of her unfortunate reverie, 
and vow “ that she would never again be betrayed into the 
misdemeanor of thinking so intently of a strange gentleman.” 

Could she have imagined her companion’s admiration of 
tlie mauvaise honte she deplored so bitterly, she would have 
found it still more difficult to meet his eye. Pier anxiety 
for the conclusion of the quadrille was mingled with regret 
“ that she would never have an opportunity to reinstate 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


279 


herself in his opinion. If he remembered her at all, it 
would be as a stupid, bashful country-girl he unfortunately 
asked to dance. 

Lord Richland seemed in no hurry to relinquish his 
partner. There was a promenade, and refreshments, and 
then he petitioned for another dance. 

Before it ended, Alice had regained her self-possession, 
and could enjoy his pleasant conversation. It was not 
brilliant, but sensible and entertaining. 

Alice scarcely thought how much of her time had been 
spent with the lion of the evening, until the laughing con- 
gratulations of her friend set her thinking. Her parting 
salutation was : “ Expect me the first thing to-morrow, for 
I shall certainly call and inform Mr. and Mrs. Melville of 
the triumph of my charge. 

She kept her w'ord, and Laurence sighed as he noted the 
blush that mantled his sister’s cheek at the mention of Lord 
Richland’s name. 

He would not lose his little sister for all the earls in 
Christendom ; besides, he was too genuine an American 
not to dislike the idea of a foreign marriage. 

After a minute’s reflection, he smiled at his foolishness, 
in allowing a little badinage to have an)^ weight, and al- 
most forgot the existence of the Earl of Richland until his 
frequent visits and the changed manner of his usually quiet 
sister set him to thinking seriously. 

Of Lord Richland’s intentions there could be no doubt, 
and Mr. Melville, in spite of his determination not to be 
pleased, was won by his frank kindliness of manner. 

Alice was all smiles and blushes, with just enough ani- 
mation to make her charming. 

Her happiness was Mr. Melville’s first wish, and con- 
quered all his scruples, although it could not soften the 
pang of losing her. 


% 


I 


2S0 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


Y\^heii Lord Facliland requested a private interview, and 
made a formal proposal for the hand of Alice, Mr. Melville 
gave his consent 'with a sufficient show of cordiality, and 
even agreed to an early marriage, on condition the Earl 
would spent the first six months of his marriage in the 
United States. 

“ You have no idea what Alice is to me,” Laurence said, 
rising abruptly, and walking to the window to conceal his 
emotion, and again confronting Lord Richland after a little 
silence. 

“She has been my first care, and the object of my deepest 
love, since my dying parents gave her to my keeping. It 
is no little thing you are asking of me ! ” he commenced, 
passionately ; but something in the expression of the face 
before him touched his heart, and he added, kindly, — 

“It is not that I distrust you, or that I fail to appreciate 
the honor you do my sister ; you might have chosen a more 
brilliant and beautiful woman, I do not forget that.” He 
extended his hand. “As I said before, I do not distrust 
you, or even refuse my consent to your marriage when Alice 
is eighteen, which will be in six months ; but I object to an 
earlier marriage, except on the condition before stated.” 

Lord Richland’s face cleared with one of the rare smiles 
that so became him as |Iie said, heartily, — 

“ It was your generosity, sir, that kept me silent. Had 
you named a year, instead of six months, I w^ould have 
thought your demand reasonable. You tell me I cannot 
understand what Alice is to you, — you who have been 
prosperous and happy, born to wealth and position ; sur- 
rounded by friends ; without any troubles greater than the 
ordinary trials of life. 

“ But if your childhood had been spent in that worst of 
poverty which pride makes hideous ; if you had only knowm 
friends to lose them, and gained wealth when it was too 
late — ” He turned deadly pale. “If you had been for 


# 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


281 


years a lonely wanderer, and then had won the love of a 
pure, gentle girl like Alice, could a brother, or a parent 
cherish her with half the tenderness ? ” 

He covered his face 'with his hands, and when, after a 
while, he said, huskily, — 

“ I have not told Alice yet of my past life ; it tortures 
me to speak of it ; but, perhaps, as her brother, you should 
know all.” 

Mr. Melville, touched by his agitation, and thinking of 
that one sorrow in his own life, said, kindly, — 

“ Tell Alice ; there should be no secrets between you ; 
we are all liable to errors, and I would not condemn what 
she can excuse.” 

There were actually tears of gratitude in Lord Eichland’s 
eyes as he wrung his hands. “ Time, perhaps, will soften 
the bitterness of the past, and when you know all, you will 
understand the kindness you do me now.” 

He went in search of Alice, and Mr. Melville drew a chair 
in front of the blazing fire and attempted to read ; after a 
while he flung the book from him. There was a shadow 
on his face, and he thought discontentedly of his weakness 
in not listening to Lord Kichland’s past life. 

“ It was foolhardy trustfulness ; it would have been in- 
excusable in a sentimental girl,” he thought, in an agony 
of reproach, and then, as the. Earl’s looks and tones came 
up before him, he would decide, that if the past hour were 
recalled, his conduct would be the same. 

He could hear the hurried footfall in the next room, as 
Lord Kichland paced to and fro with impatient steps. 
Laurence waited almost as impatiently for the sound of the 
opening door. It came at last, and he heard the low mur- 
mur of voices ; Alice was with her lover. 

Again his thoughts recurred to the past life of Lord 
Richland. 




24 * 


282 


MABEL CLIFTOX. 


“ It would be a very terrible revelation, if Alice could 
not excuse it ; and yet her life had been so protected from 
even a knowledge of evil, that an error he would consider 
' trivial might seem to her a crime. He shuddered at the 
thought. It would break her heart to lose faith in Lord 
Eichland. It was not now the calm affection she had felt 
for Clarence Stanley, but the love that comes but once in a 
life-time. 

Annie opened the door softly, but retreated at the sight 
of her husband’s troubled face, and left him to await in 
silence and alone the result of the communication that 
would decide his sister’s destiny. 

Other thoughts came crowding back, and with startling 
vividness that scene at Mr. Clifton’s, the day after the de- 
parture of the family, when he met the beautiful stranger, 
the lady with the mournful eyes and wealth of raven hair. 
He had almost forgotten her ; but his wonder at the mys- 
tery was not diminished by the time that had elapsed since 
the occurrence. 

Hours passed ; the fire burnt low, and the shadows of 
twilight were creeping slowly among the pictures and the 
books with their rich bindings. 

A rustle at the door roused him from his reverie, and 
looking up with a start, he saw Alice and her lover before 
him. 

Lord Richland’s face was very pale ; but a serene happi- 
ness displaced the melancholy that had never before left it, 
except when he smiled. Alice was clinging to him with a 
devotedness that seemed to say: “It must be my first care 
to make you forget the past in the happy future.” A min- 
ute more, and she was kneeling by her brother’s side, and 
had drawn his face down to a level with her own, — so 
tearful, and yet so smiling, — her hand still clasped in that 
of her betrothed liusband. 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


283 


The revelation had only proved a closer tie. Every 
shadow vanished from Mr. Melville’s face, and after a 
while the three went in search of Annie. 

They found her standing by the parlor-window, looking 
out on the Avintry street, and her husband knew she had 
been thinking of a baby-face that could never again glad- 
den her with its loveliness, and of little pattering feet that 
were forever still. She smiled through her tears at hi? ap- 
proach, and he whispered, — 

“ You were right, after all, dearest ; our sister 
be a countess.” 

Lord Richland knew that Mrs. Melville hat 
firm friend from the first, and advanced toward her, radiant 
with happiness and gratitude, and grasped both her hands, 
with the cordial affection of a brother. Her brown eyes 
sparkled Avith all their olden beauty, ^nd, woman-like, she 
forgot her trouble, in sympathy Avith the happy lovers. 

Laurence drew her to his side when the congratulations 
Avere ended, and looking on her glowing face, thanked 
Heaven “ that she Avas all his own, and dearer each day.” 



I 


% 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

C 1LARENCE hurried to Mabel’s side in alarm ; but she 
^ rose with a haughty gesture and left the room ; envy 
and rage stifling each nobler impulse, and even love 
buried amid the chaos of contending emotions. “Alice 
Melville a countess, and Mabel Clifton destined to be the 
•wife 6f an unknown artist,” was the thought uppermost in 
her miM as she paced the floor, with burning cheeks and 
flashing eyes. 

Plad Alice been her bitterest foe, she could not have hated 
her more. Kind, happy Alice, who thought of her tenderly, 
and who longed for the time when she could welcome her 
to the home that was being fitted for her own reception. 

There was something fearKil in her baffled rage. Ambi- 
tion had been her idol, and had painted the future Avith 
gorgeous castles that gleamed before her eyes mockingly, 
and disappeared at the very moment of realization. 

What availed her beauty an3 Circean charms, when the 
most insipid girls could take all the prizes in life ? Of 
Clarence she would not think ; what was love to her, when 
it could bring neither wealth nor power ? 

The hours passed on leaden wings, and the chill gray of 
morning touched her cheek with such a ghastly light, that 
she started at the reflection in the mirror ; and worn out 
with the conflict of thoughts, sank into a chair and burst 
into tears, the first she had shed. 

She could struggle no more ; there Avas a deadly sinking 
at her heart, that recalled her weary illness and the doctor’s 
warning. Thrilling Avith terror at the thought, that she 

284 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


285 


might be even then dying, she tottered to the bell-rope and 
grasped it with a trembling hand. 

When consciousness returned, she was lying on the bed, 
surrounded by a group of frightened servants. Her heart 
gave a joyful throb at the sound of her lover’s voice in the 
vestibule, and she whispered them to call him. 

He came at the summons, looking pale and anxious. She 
smiled and clasped his hands tightly as he bent over her. 

It was a blessed feeling of rest and protection that came 
to her then, and she closed her eyes and sunk into a quiet 
slumber. 

She was ill for several days, during which she was kept 
very quiet, and she was so kind and patient that the house- 
keeper shed bitter tears, when out of her room ; and in spite 
of the doctor’s favorable opinion of his patient, insisted 
sadly “ that it was death, she had felt it from the first. I 
have seen too many Cliftons die, not to know the sign; 
when they are gentle and patient, it is death coming.” 

Clarence Stanley was very happy during those days of 
convalescence, and the recollection in after-years softened 
all that was harsh and bitter in his memory of Mabel, and 
made her seem as angelic in heart and life as she was beau- 
tiful in person. 

Mabel said to her lover on one of those quiet days of 
convalescence, wdien she lay back in her easy-chair and 
watched the fire-light dancing on the pictures and carvings 
of the beautiful room, and shining on the fair yet manly 
face, so perfect in its contour, and so full of love for herself. 

“ Don’t talk to me of the world, dear Clarence ; I wish 
to think only of you and the present. Listening as you 
read or talk, I forget the struggles and temptations of life.” 

“ But your letters, dear,” he remonstrated gently; “they 
are from Alice.” 

Her cheek flushed, and she pushed them from her, smil- 


288 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


ingly — “ Not yet, wait until I am well. It has never been 
so easy to be good before,” she said, half sadly, half in 
mirth ; and he pressed her hand to his lips with silent ten- 
derness, and resuming his book, read softly, — 

“The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of night, 

As a feather is wafted downward. 

From an eagle in his flight,” etc. etc. 

all through the beautiful poem. He closed the book at 
the end and looked up in Mabel’s face as she repeated, as 
if in continuation of her thoughts, — 

“And the night shall be filled with music. 

And the cares that infest the day 
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 

And silently steal away.” 

“I never knew Longfellow was so beautiful,” she said, 
smiling; “it must be that you lent to the charm of the 
poet the music of your voice.” 

“ I know that you are the blessing and charm of my 
life, Mabel,” Clarence said, passionately, leaning over her 
chair and looking fondly into her beautiful face. A sudden 
change swept over it, like a shadow, and she said, bitterly, — 

“ I am so sorry you love me, Clarence ; if you are ever 
tempted to hate me, think of this time and that I loved 
you.” Before he could answer, a servant entered and 
handed him a despatch. He uttered an impatient excla- 
mation, and handed it to Mabel in silence. 

“You never told me how near you were to being a rich 
man,” she said, brightly, and her eyes sparkled with sudden 
animation. 

“ I never knew certainly of the prospect until lately,” he 
answered, gloomily; “but I would not leave you now for 
double the sum.” 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


287 


“ The spirit of the sixteenth century risen to reproach my 
avarice,” Mabel said, gayly, with a touch of sarcasm in her 
tone. 

‘‘But I must go immediately!” 

She laughingly interrupted him, — 

“Then, in the heroic spirit of seventy-six, I bid you go!” 

With much reluctance and a heavy heart he made his 
adieus. It w’as so hard to leave her before she was entirely 
well ; but a fortune trembled in the balance, and his pres- 
ence w’as necessary. 

“ Do not think of me as sick or unhappy, Clarence ; your 
good fortune will be a talisman that will banish every evil.” 
Her face h^d never been more radiant, and her smile ban- 
ished his last scruple. 

He thought of her incessantly as the cars dashed onward 
through the starlight of a clear, frosty night, and of the beau- 
tiful future that stretched before him, roseate with love and 
hope ; and the wish of his heart ever uppermost through all 
the weary routine of the lawsuit was “to meet Mabel again!” 

He pictured her beautiful face, and it danced before him 
over the dusty parchments as he thought smilingly of her 
last words : — 

“ It would be worth while to part now, if it were only to 
feel the happiness of meeting.” 

In the defiant joy of youth he would have laughed to 
scorn the foolish poet’s words, — 

“ The meetings in this world of change 
Are sadder than the partings oft.” 

Mabel told him truly when she said the news of his 
fortune had restored her health. Just when she mourned 
the fate that scattered disappointment in her path, the 
smiling goddess Fortune showered her with golden favors, 
and smiling Loves circled in the future. 




288 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


Alice was welcome to her new honors. 

Clarence Stanley, the artist with a moderate income, 
who would spend the best years of his life in obscurity, 
was a different person from a wealthy artist whose splendor 
would smooth even the path to fame. 

What a brilliant future gleamed before her; she acknowl- 
edged no fears as to the result, and triumphantly opened 
the letters from Alice. 

The last was a loving invitation to Mabel, that would 
brook no denial, to come and make her a long visit, and 
reach New York in time for her reception, which would be 
on the fifteenth. 

“ Just a week from this time,” thought Mabel, and she 
glanced carelessly down the sheet. 

Alice wrote of the splendid home of which she was to be 
mistress for six months ; “ and the most beautiful room of 
all, dearest, will be for 3mu. 

“Willard selected every article with a vie\v to your 
taste.” 

IMabel colored at the name, and shivered with a kind of 
terror. Her eyes turned with a species of fascination to 
the bold, firm writing of the postscript, cordially reiterat- 
ing the invitation of Alice, and signed, “Your friend, 
AYillakd.” 

But she had very little time for dwelling on the coin- 
cidence that brought that name to her recollection at the 
very time when she had cast herself adrift from the past ; 
and after a hasty note to Clarence, asking him to meet her 
in New York in time for the wedding-festivities of the Earl 
and Countess of Richland, she gave herself up to the de- 
lightful feminine task of inspecting silks and satins, and all 
the enchantment lurking in laces and jewels. 


CHAPTER XLVIL 


I T was quite late in the afternoon, when- Mabel reached 
New York. She was so exhausted with her journey, 
that she scarcely noted that the carriage awaiting her arrival 
was rich in emblazonry and glittering with silver. 

“My lady had given you up,” said the obsequious maid, 
who was ready with furs and wrappings. 

Mabel leaned back on the cushions and closed her eyes 
with a sense of relief, and the carriage dashed along through 
interminable windings. 

“I will go at once to my room,” she said, briefly, when 
she had ascended the marble steps and stood within the hall. 
It was grand enough for a palace, showing a long vista of 
elegant rooms, dazzling with mirrors, pictures, and beauti- 
ful furniture, and fragrant with the perfume of rare exotics 
that hung in fairy-like baskets from the rich carvings, and 
bloomed in curious vases on the marble mantles and or- 
mula tables. 

Her eye drank in the beauty at one quick glance, and 
then she wearily ascended the staircase. The frescoed 
cherubs beaming on her from the exquisitely pictured w^alls, 
and smiling hours scattering roses, and cupids peeping from 
azure-tinted clouds. 

But she absolutely started with an exclamation of plea- 
sure as the door of her own room was flung open, and re- 
vealed a continuation of magnificence and taste beyond her 
wildest dreams. Clouds of fleecy lace, with a glow like a 
rose-tinted sunset, shrouded the long windows, and hung in 
graceful festoons over a couch whose snowy pillows and 
25 T 289 


290 


MABEL CLIFTOK. 


satin coverings were of the same delicate hue. Every chair 
and table was a bijou of art, and the rose-colored Persian 
carpet seemed blooming with delicate lilies of the valley; 
and all this loveliness, veiled in the shadowy twilight, 
glowed before her like a fairy vision, or a dream of en- 
chantment. 

AYhile she paused, spellbound with admiration, delicate 
arms encircled her, and Alice, clad in silk, and flashing 
with jewels, murmured a passionate welcome. 

“I so feared you would not come, Mabel darling, and the 
happiness of my wedding-day would have been incomplete 
without your presence. But you look pale and weary,’' 
she said, anxiously, after she had removed her friend’s 
wrappings and caught a full view of her face. 

“ You must rest now until it is time to receive our guests, 
and even Willard shall not see you. We were just at 
dinner, but I will order yours brought to your room.” 

Mabel leaned back in her chair and smiled brightly on 
her friend who was so artlessly glad to see her, and whose 
simplicity and lovely, timid manner contrasted oddly, yet 
not ungracefully, with her elegant dress and magnificent 
surroundings. 

Alice had seated herself on an ottoman, her hands clasped 
on Mabel’s lap, with all her did childish abandon and de- 
votion. 

“What a modest little countess you are, to be sure,” 
Mabel said, playfully smoothing her fair hair. 

“I wish I could be more dignified,” Alice replied, half 
sadly, a shadow crossing her face ; ‘‘but Willard likes me 
all the better now, and as I mix more in society, I will im- 
prove.” 

“ The fates forbid ! ” said Mabel, kissing her tenderly ; 
“ the violet might as well wish to be a glaring tulip. I have 
had time to think seriously of life during my illness, and 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


291 


I know there are not many so trusting and pure as your- 
self, dear Alice. You must teach me to be good. — Na}^, 
Alice,” and she laid her hand over the pretty lips that 
would have uttered a disclaimer — ‘‘I have said nothing but 
the truth. You have long enough worshipped me as a di- 
vinity ; you are not the only person who judges a jewel by 
its setting. Because I am beautiful and fascinating, you 
excuse all my faults and believe me perfection. If I ever 
had a good quality, it was smothered by selfishness. I at- 
tended church last Sunday, Alice, and what is more singu- 
lar, I listened to the minister, and St. Paul expresses my 
case exactly in saying : ‘ When I would do good, evil is 
ever present with me.’ If you knew all my past life, you 
would shudder ; but I believe you would still love me. 
You and Clarence have awakened all that is lovable in 
my nature. But I am like a vessel on a wide sea, with- 
out sail or compass, tossed by every wind; the haven 
seems peaceful, and I believe the storms are over ; but I 
cannot tell,” she said, wearily, after a moment’s pause, “or 
why I talk thus to my friend on her wedding-day — selfish 
even in my best moods, I suspect.” But she smiled and 
added, gayly, “ My reformation will be no easy task for 
you, Alice, even with Clarence for an assistant. Perhaps, 
after all. Lord Kichland will be a sufficient undertaking ; 
but I see from your blush that you think him perfection.” 

A servant interrupted their conversation by bringing in 
dinner, and Mabel insisted that Alice should return to the 
Earl, whose eternal enmity, she protested, she did not wish 
to incur, by appearing as a rival ; and Alice departed in 
a flutter of delight. 

Mabel tried in vain to eat, but a glass of wine acted like 
a charm; and when Alice paid her a flying visit an hour 
later, her maid was unrolling packages until the room was 
a labyrinth of handsome dresses, fleecy laces, and all the 


292 MABEL CLIFTON. 

paraphernalia of a modern belle’s toilette, and Mabel, her 
own blooming self, engaged in directing the maid and un- 
winding the coils of her magnificent hair. 

Alice surveyed her admiringly, and confessed in her 
pretty, smiling way, that her reception would have been a 
trying ordeal without her friend’s assistance. 

“Willard is so indiflTerent as to what people say; but I 
want this to be the grand afiair of the season. Your ex- 
pected arrival has created quite a sensation,” 

Mabel’s cheek flushed with a glow of conscious triumph ' 
as Alice told how fashionable belles were trembling for 
their laurels, and that the beautiful Miss Clifton was the 
theme of all tongues. — Alice stopped suddenly in her re- 
cital, and said, with a frightened air, that she had forgotten 
her errand, — 

“ Clarence had telegraphed her brother that it wmuld be 
impossible for him to reach New York that evening, or 
earlier than the next afternoon.” 

Mabel interrupted her apologies with a kiss. “ What a 
tyrant I must have been, Alice, that you should fear my 
anger at so slight an ofience ; but remember in future ” — 
Alice looked up wonderingly — “ that you are Countess 
of Kichland, and that I — am on my good behavior ; and 
your very humble servant wishes your opinion on the mo- 
mentous question of a dress for to-night.” 

Alice replied by putting her arm round her neck, and 
whispering, — 

“Do not call me Countess, or my lady, even in jest. The 
title seems absurd to me here. I may like it better in Eng- 
->nd.” 

Mabel’s laugh rang out mockingly. 

“And what says the Earl to this heresy from his demo- 
cratic wife ? ” 

“He agrees with me perfectly in that respect; he — ” 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


293 


Mabel’s exclamation of surprise recalled Alice to tlie 
fact that she was about to betray her husband’s secret, and 
the blood rushed in a crimson tide over face and neck. 

“ Excuse my interruption,” said Mabel, a little sarcas- 
tically ; “ the world seems to have changed since my year 
of seclusion. Perhaps it would be better to give up dress- 
ing for your reception, and at once prepare for the Millen- 
nium. To meet in one house a lady who dislikes a title, 
and an Earl who considers his coronet an absurdity ! ” 

Touched by the embarrassment of her friend, she added, 
with a smile that disarmed her speech of unkindness, — 

. “ Depend upon it, Alice, you, two, should have lived in 
Arcadia.” 

Alice said in a low tone, “ If you knew all the circum- 
stances, you would not feel so much surprise. My husband 
was not always an earl.” 

The more reason why he would appreciate the title, Ma- 
bel thought ; but she said kindly, — 

After you have lived abroad, you will understand better 
than I can tell you, the advantage a title gives its possessor.” 

But her face was grave, as it suddenly occurred to her 
wdiy the name of Lord Richland had impressed her so 
strangely. . It was at Florence she heard it. The recol- 
lection of all that occurred in those few weeks flashed 
across her mind, and thrilled her with a sudden terror. 
‘‘ It was there she met her husband ; the name was insep- 
arably united with the remembrance ; was there a myste- 
rious connection between the two?” ShO smiled a moiQent 
after at her folly, and was soon engaged in a laughing con- 
troversy with Alice, who pronounced in favor of a silver 
tissue, exquisitely painted with violets, that seemed to 
bloom with the freshness of life amid the glittering fabric. 

The dressing-bell found Alice triumphant, and bidding 
Mabel come to her room at nine, she hurried away. 

25 * 


294 MABEL CLIFTON. 

Mabel turned from the finery heaped around her in 
graceful confusion, and leaned wearily back on the easy- 
couch, and watching the fire-light through the masses of 
hair that hung over her face, fell into a slumber so pro- 
found and dreamless, it was like a trance, from which it 
was pain to awaken. 

Voices seemed murmuring softly in the rose-tinted at- 
mosphere, and she half unclosed her eyes and listened 
breathlessly, wondering if she were dreaming. A startled 
exclamation roused her, and she saw the frightened face 
of her maid bending over her. 

“ You looked so ill, I feared you were — ” 

“ Give me some wine,’^ Mabel interrupted, faintly, and 
with trembling hand raised the glass to her lips ; it circled 
through her veins like a draught of youth, and the color 
came back to her lips, and the brightness to her eyes. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


A lice, now Countess of Richland, awaited in her dress- 
ing-room the arrival of her husband. She was 
resplendent in all the beauty of her bridal attire, fair as 
a lily, and as fresh and pure. 

She blushed at the reflection of her own loveliness, as 
she stood before the tall mirror. Satin and lace and pearls 
were in keeping with her creamy complexion and placid 
features and wealth of fair hair. 

The splendor that surrounded her seemed strange and 
unreal. She felt as if she were playing a part in some 
glittering pageant, and that in a few hours she would lay 
aside her gay attire, and the lights would die out, and the 
flowers wither, and she would waken and find herself the 
quiet Alice Melville, to whom fashionable life was a mys- 
tery, and love an unrealized dream. 

The Earl entered so quietly that she- was unaware of his 
presence, until his arm had encircled her waist, and the 
dear tones of his voice fell like music on her ear. After 
a while she raised her eyes to his face and smiled brightly 
at the devotion, that glowed in every feature. 

It was to them a bliss so perfect, that Eden could have 
added nothing to their joy. 

There was a rustling of silk at the door, and Mabel 
Clifton stood, hesitatingly, on the threshold, startled at the 
unexpected beauty of her friend, and softened at the sight 
of their devotion, as she watched the happy pair, with a 
smile parting her glowing lips. 

Her heart beat tumultuously at a something familiar in 

295 


296 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


Lord Kicliland’s figure, and yet the feeling was not de- 
fined, as she waited curiously for a glimpse of his face^ 
that was hidden by his clustering hair. Something in his 
attitude made her heart throb faster, and pressing her 
hands tightly, she leaned forward in breathless expecta- 
tion. Now there is a glimpse of the clear-cut features, 
and the blood curdles in her veins for an instant, and then 
rushes, like a burning flood, to her throbbing brain, as she 
sees distinctly before her, in the mirror, the face of the 
man to whom she once promised to be faithful unto death — 
the husband she had so cruelly deserted. She clung to the 
doorway for support, and her senses reeled. Minute after 
minute passed in an almost superhuman efibrt at self-con- 
trol. And the happy lovers, absorbed in their Elysian 
dream, were unconscious of the presence that was to their 
Eden as the serpent by wEom our first parents lost Par- 
adise. 

She heard their voices, but the words were unmeaning 
sounds, and troops of figures from the unforgotten past 
came crowding before her, a ghostly train. Her meeting 
w'ith her husband, and the events that cast a gloom over 
the home to which he welcomed her so cordially ; her mother, 
as she looked on that night, when the whiteness of death 
was on her calm face, and the long lashes rested motion- 
less on the marble-like cheek. And still the familiar tones 
floated bn the hushed air, and in half-frenzy she turned 
and fled along the corridor, past the astonished servants, — 
the glaring gas-light flashing on the diamonds, aifd spark- 
ling and glowing in the folds of her rich dress. She gained 
her room by a kind of inspiration, and sunk into a chair, 
the chaos in her mind deepening, and the past and the 
present battling in her throbbing brain. 

Carriage after carriage rattled along the pavement ; gay 
voices rung through the hall, and merry laughter startled 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


297 


the echoes in her silent room ; hut she took no heed. It 
must have been hours since a servant came to her room 
with a message, — 

“The Earl and Countess were ready to receive their 
guests ; would she join them ? ” 

She had roused herself to send an excuse, and relapsed 
into the dreary thinking, if a state in which figures and 
voices, blended with memories of the past, could be so 
termed. No light had yet broken on her troubled brain. 

“ Oh ! I must be going mad,” she said, wildly starting 
to her feet, still giddy and confused. 

Her eye fell on a letter, placed conspieubusly on her 
dressing-bureau. It was from her lover, and the memory 
of Clarence brought a sudden feeling of rest. 

“ If he were only here now, I would tell him all,” she 
thought, with a passionate longing to look on his face again, 
and to leave all this new horror that had burst upon her; to 
flee, as we sometimes do, from a wild storm to where the 
sky is unclouded, and the war of the elements, and flashes 
of lightning, no longer startle us with terror. 

There was another message from Alice, who was fright- 
ened and distressed at her absence, and had not yet found 
an opportunity to leave her guests. 

She returned the same answer, “ that she was not yet 
rested ; ” and after another interval there was a tap at her 
door, and a familiar voice, whose tones had startled her in 
dreams since she heard them last, called, — 

“Miss Clifton, Alice fears you are ill; can I prevail 
upon you to come down now?” 

Clarence Stanley’s letter proved a talisman. Looking 
at the bold, firm writing, she found courage to answer, 
though her voice sounded hollow and unnatural, — 

“She was only tired from her journey. She would send 
word when -she was ready.” 


) 


29S 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


Lord Ricliland did not recognize the voice, and after a 
little hesitation turned away. 

Mabel listened eagerly to the muffled sound of his foot- 
steps, and then hastily resolved to go quietly and leave him 
to the happiness he had found, after so many trials. 

She grew calmer every moment, and when she could 
look around her steadily, opened the letter. The first lines 
roused her to the full possession of all her faculties, as a 
sudden calamity will restore the confused intellect of a 
drunken man. 

“ My dearest Mabel ! I have lost the suit. I will have 
no deeper wealth to offer you than my love, — it is un- 
bounded ! 

She read no more ; and crushing the paper in her hand, 
flung it into the fire. Her pulses seemed turning to ice, 
and her heart was cold as adamant. 

After a while she rose and smoothed her hair, and shook 
out the folds of her dress. There was a fearful beauty in 
her cold face, and her eyes gleamed like stars. There had 
been no struggle ; that letter had decided her doom. Hope 
and love and truth she flung aside for ambition. Were 
Clarence dyiug at her feet, and with one word she could 
save him, it would not be uttered. She felt no pity for 
Alice ; would she waver at her grief, when she did not hes- 
itate for her own. As to the divorce, it was obtained by 
bribery ; it should be annulled, and she, instead of Alice, 
would be Countess of Richland. 

She waited Avith dreadful calmness for the last guest to 
depart. Hours passed, and silence came at last. She 
looked out on the long, deserted hall. The air was stifling 
with perfume, and the cheerful lights mocked her Avith 
their gleam. 

She sloAvly descended the staircase, and stood within the 
magnificent drawing-room. 




MABEL CLIFTON, 


299 


A group was gathered in front of the fire. Years had 
passed since she looked on two of the faces, Laurence Mel- 
ville’s and Annie Raymond’s. They were talking gayly, 
and Alice was leaning on her husband’s arm. 

Mabel had reached the centre of the room and stood 
under the full blaze of the chandelier, when Alice turned 
toward her with a glad smile and an exclamation of de- 
light. Laurence Melville turned deadly pale, and his wife 
gazed in speechless admiration on the beautiful vision that 
seemed too lovely for mortal eyes to look upon ; a radiant 
being, wrapped in a flood of dazzling light. 

There was a faint shriek from Alice as she caught sight 
of her husband’s face; it had changed from terror to a 
despair that seemed turning him to stone. 

There was a silence like death ; and Mabel stood 
motionless, her eyes fixed steadily on Lord Richland’s face 
as he advanced toward her. She put her hand within 
his arm, and the smile of triumph dimpled her glowing 
cheek and shone in her eyes as she glanced defiantly on 
the group. 

Alice started forward, and there was anger in her blue 
eyes, usually so gentle and loving. 

“Mabel Clifton, do you remember the Gipsy’s pro- 
phecy ? ” she said, in a clear, distinct voice. “ She warned 
me of you ; and her words were true ; you have worked 
the sorrow of my life ; — but your own doom is yet to 
come ! ” 

The momentary anger faded as she met her husband’s 
mournful, despairing gaze, and she extended her hand to 
Mabel. 

“By the love I have shown you from childhood, listen to 
me now, — we were so happy, Willard and I; leave us in 
peace ! ” 

Lord Richland fixed his despairing eye on her face; 


300 


MABEL CLIFTON, 


but there was no relenting in her triumphant, inflexible 
purpose. He essayed to speak, but no sound came from 
his white lips until he turned again to Alice, — 

“ My poor, lost darling, the woman before you is the 
woman I thought dead, the wife who deserted me.” 

With a groan he caught her to his heart convulsively, 
and kissed her. He parted the hair from her forehead, 
and looked long and tenderly in her face, and then 
placed her gently in a chair, and turned to Laurence 
Melville, whose face was haggard as if years had passed 
over it. 

“You think me a villain; but I am the victim of a hor- 
rible mistake. The grave covers all errors; and when 
Alice has told you my sad story, you will pity, if you cannot 
forgive me.” 

His words were hurried, his face livid with anguish and 
the deadly purpose that seemed printed on every lineament, 
and with a last look at Alice he turned to leave- the room, 
without glancing again at Mabel. 

Alice, with a shriek that rung' wildly on the air, sprang 
forward and grasped him with her trembling hands, and 
clung in a despair too deep for utterance. 

Mabel’s voice broke the silence. She was slowly sinking 
to the floor ; the color had left her face, and no marble 
could have been whiter. 

“ For the love of Heaven, listen to me! — oh ! I am dying.” 

Her appealing glance rested on Laurence Melville, and 
he took her in his arms as he knelt beside her, and her 
beautiful lace, ghastly with the shadows of coming death, 
rested on his shoulder. 

There was no mistaking the pallor and the fluttering 
- breath, and they gathered round her in a solemn awe that 
stilled the tumult of passion. 

Laurence Melville coiild feel the icy chill that shivered 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


301 


the almost pulseless form that rested in his arms for the 
last time on earth. 

He almost felt that he was with her passing the boun- 
daries of life. She lay so quiet, that, in an agony of fear, he 
laid his trembling hand on her pallid fingers. The touch 
seemed to recall her fleeting spirit, and she unclosed her 
eyes and looked mournfully in his face. She read there 
the forgiveness he could not utter, and an expression of 
peace illumined her countenance ; her fingers pressed his 
tightly, as if it was her last hold on the existence that was 
slipping away; but she extended her other hand to her 
husband. He pressed it to his lips in silence, and his breast 
heaved with suppressed sobs. He could only remember 
then that he had loved her, and that she was dying. 

She spoke slowly : I am not legally your wife, and I 
wish the secret of our marriage to die with me. There 
is one person in all the world who believes me good ; let 
him still think me so, — dear, dear Clarence ! ” 

She paused, and the tears stood in her lovely eyes. 

“ If I only could have died when Clarence was with me, 
and I was so happy,” she murmured, faintly, as she lay 
with closed eyes. She opened them at the sound of weep- 
ing. It was Alice, who sank beside her in an agony of 
grief. 

“ Mabel, oh, my darling, forgive the cruel words I spoke 
to you ! ” A burst of sobs choked her utterance. 

Idabel tried to support her with her trembling arm, but 
sunk back, panting with the exertion, and the blood bubbled 
to her white lips. Laurence bent and wiped away the crim- 
son stain, and she murmured, faintly, — 

“Kiss me, Alice, and comfort Clarence when I am 
gone.” 

As Alice bent fondly and pressed her fresh, warm lips 
to her friend’s, her consciousness deserted her, and Lord 
26 


302 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


Richland, at a sign from Laurence, bore away her fainting 
form. 

Annie, who had been standing apart from the group, 
came forward, pale and tearful, and took the place Alice 
had quitted. 

The struggle was almost over ; but Mabel pressed 
Annie’s hand faintly. It was her last act of contrition, 
and with a tremulous sigh, her erring soul quitted its earthly 
tenement. 


THE END. 


T he sunlight of an April morning stole through the heavy 
curtains on the pallid form of Mabel Clifton, clad in 
snowy robes, and adorned with pure, white blossoms that 
smiled in fatal beauty around the inanimate figure — the 
poor semblance of what once glowed with youth and beauty. 

The story of her life was ended, and no love or hope 
could .thrill the pulseless heart. 

She was white as a lily, an^ a smile half parted her ex- 
quisitely chiselled lips. 

Clarence Stanley sat beside her motionless . as a statue. 
•His eyes never wavered from her beautiful face ; his own 
looked as cold and passionless, and the grief imprinted on 
his countenance was the grief that time could never cure. 

There were forms replete with health and vigor that stole 
noiselessly to that white draperied couch, and gazed with 
suppressed breath on the shrouded figure, — some with tears 
that fell on the waxen petals of the flowers that lay in a 
cross on her breast. A few knelt and kissed the white lips, 
or reverently touched the hair parted so smoothly on the 
placid forehead. 

It was a solemn warning to all, the sudden death of the 
gifted young girl who breathed her last on her friend’s wed- 
. ding-night, and whose veins were thrilling with the icy 
current while the gay murmur of voices rang out on the 
perfumed air. 

The bride, so smiling a few hours before, stole timidly 
in and out of that silent room, her long, black robes and 

303 


304 


MABEL CLIFTON. 


tear-stained face contrasting with the snowy purity of the 
pulseless, unconscious dead. 

It seemed strange that Lord Richland should sit with 
bent head and rigid features, and that, when he drew the 
weeping Alice to take her last look at the friend to whom 
she had been faithful even unto death, his face was as white 
as the face he kissed so passionately ; or that he and Clar- 
ence and Laurence Melville kept their silent vigils night 
after night, until the coffinlid was closed forever on the 
beauty they had each worshipped. 

Lord Richland and Alice alone knew all the secrets of 
the proud heart that had throbbed so fiercely with pride and 
ambition, and they could pity and excuse the errors that 
had embittered her young existence and blighted her life. 

In that hour, never forgotten by any who stood beside 
her dying form, Mabel had said : 

“ There is one person living who believes me good : let 
him think me so still.” And of all who wept beside her 
shrouded form, Clarence, who loved her most, could grieve 
with the least bitterness. 

Amid the struggle and turmoil of the future, he could . 
look back on the bliss that flooded fon a brief period his 
life with happiness. He could never utterly lonely so 
long as that memory was left him. 


r ’ 




ri»^ >v. 



.' t 


’j' •. 



31 ** . • f' ,' ' ^ •^'mS ' i, ■ ' 

»?>. ffpi ?■,-?••'?■ ■ ■ -:• • ;■ '.4 * 





*#, '' 


“ 1 . o 


I ; 


t. • 

- 1 . ' • 


^X’v 

* ^ * * 




*■■' ;• 


If 




> I 


» . ' 


•f' 



. » '- ’C 


..V' '’■•^1 ■ ;■ - Jr' 

' » * . , A. 'V.' 


% . * *• 


^ JE- 




>♦ * » ' 

. L* ' ., 




tA 

M / 


I • » 

I 4 


\ t 

•• U 4M A 



4* .. 



3‘ .*. 




4 *') ’K- 

V *A 

.'V ; 


» < 


) t'\ 




•4» 




. .i 




I 

'i\y 4 


» 4 . 








.V 




4 ^ 





'■'ih ■ 


' 

r “ • / 


; 






, <• 


II . » 


. * 


i r * A'> '•i 

# 




ii/ 






yy- . ■ '. yf ': 

• * v;^» 4:, ‘ 


*■ 1 . 


, t 

L 


3 


'' "''.'.^T’ ','V-' V'"' '■ "•' *'''’.'^'\C-'7» ■ .Ij 


•■*# 




> 4« 


» 




:: : 4 ■ ■ 

.y/fe' . - m 

' ' . * ' ‘ V K v> y '^!]w!v/ <V«Ki 




4 ' 




V ' •< 

. ^ - .. J • V 


•■i "Vl^^'^-' V. "iC 


■ aHSa 

-1 .'■'C'f A ^ ■■u* ' 

ri rr* iNfUfTf 


I 


1 ^ 


jj 


‘•T 


. •.f 

4 • • 1 * 

• • •<*-. 


% 

• 4 . 


' *' ■Ok j* 

1 ^ 


' M* ' • - - , 

‘ ' 4 , fc' 



i 'V'— * 

■'4.- 

*' 


>4 




--ii: 


' V' . 

^ < 


‘ A 



< ; . 4 





* > 

' w 


V •>.-/ 


- 'r' 


4 ' 


• . . I • • » • ^ • 

"rV' j.^'’ ,'-V . Vv '■■ 


' t k> 

1 4 • V' 


r A *• ’•• 4 *^ -. • - .* 



i \ 


•A i 1 :* -J 


f 


'** % -r « ?.% 


. ... ^ 



4 


ffT 




'» • 






* ■ 





♦ 


" w 



A 


rV •■ 


.t < • 


t 

t 


* 

( 


P 


*■>'. ' i^r. 



•’f 


-> * ^ 




/ 4 

’ Vi* 


■ .-j-' 



J> - 

i 

■’ V 




4 




9 



. . * 


t «* 

• « 



% 


V 


. I 


1 






% 











n 


■ % .W.- 

• ' ■ »_ 


• • • 


^ - ■ ■ -'"4 t'li 

J ' L- ■ ■* . ■ * r 5 

' • ■'- % • . ,> ^ ;n:»: 


n * 


*• V 


A t 



\ 

3 


_• i 


\ 

a 


•-T 


• 4 


t - 
> 

, W 


«• 


. ' 

• 1 - . 


., , , : , ^ 

••.>1 

■■■. , j - 

■ ■- v "'-^ ■ 

' ■. vi .'' V “| ' #ai 

' i ■■ . 4 ?. -• tS •» ■ 

' w . - / 4 iV % ./^ ^ 


v\ 


-» ;> r . ' ' -J -4 . L . 

' J ' " . A ?. tS •r • 5 

\mt ••’;'•■ •• ‘./ififfi 


-V *i 

. ' •V.--" .' ■\;;'i'K 'W 

’■- ■;■- ?• *’ T ' Uv - , K:a 


• {■ 


VM . 


V /' 


; • < **^ 

* • • • 

>. • * 


•/- ■ 
. *»j>' 

I V 


>*. ' 4; > 

y . * 


; - -v . , ■■^ ■ ■ -y 

' ■ ■ • , V ’ 

-W *- vA«J * c^» a . » jA5 ► . 

’.. ■ ■■ 1:*'^- 


« 


s -. 


», - . \ . • . ’ .■ I (■ 

- ( v ': K ^ cV .'.. : - 

• *' •. ' 'Wr* ^ ’'“ -*• 


'y 

V . 

r ■'• ■ 

>..^ 

/V/ - 1 

’ • ^ t\^ 
^ - ' • 

4^* 

T* 
f . 

* • 


p» ' ■ 

*\ .. 



(*< 






. 4 




j 

* • < 

^ j . w I ■<“,«•<, 

/ m^* 















, 




sj 






nVii 



i^j 



wy’l ; 

;V 

f 

v,y 


y,y: 























■I^CCfK 

5S»^»jA. .jh 
























sS^uO 





















&.w/MW£>;M 




















UBRARY OF CONGRESS 




